Human
by SomberSerenity
Summary: My take on what may have happened after the end of the series. After Claire revealed the existence of her kind to the world, chaos erupted. Now many are being held captive, just as her father warned her about. Main focus on Claire and Sylar/Gabriel. Trigger warning for self-harm and sexual assault. In progress.
1. Awakening

"_I have kept you out of danger your whole life so you wouldn't have to find your limits. Because if they find you, that's what they'll do. They'll cut you, they'll test you. And they will push you so far past your capacity for pain that you'll wish you could die. Believe me. You may feel confined here, but this is far freer a cage than the one they'd put you in."_

_ -Noah Bennet, 'Lizards'_

Her father had always tried to keep her out of danger. It was hard to see at the time, blinded as she was by confusion and betrayal, but he'd done everything for her. He'd warned her of the dangers of exposing her abilities, of what could happen to her if she even tried to use them to help others. He'd warned her against even using them to _stop_ others, those who would threaten their exposure or the lives of others. He'd wanted to keep her in a glass cage, free from the fear and pain that the rest of her kind endured on a daily basis.

But she wasn't so fragile.

She could no longer feel pain; Sylar had made sure of that. She could regrow appendages, spit out bullets, have her skull sawed off and reattached. Nothing could touch her if she didn't want it to, and yet still he continued to treat her like a child. She wasn't allowed to help the millions of people who died each day, even though she knew perfectly well that her blood would heal them. It had brought her father back, after all, possibly even from death. She could help people, prevent them from feeling the same fear and helplessness that she had as Sylar probed her mind, her thoughts. She could help others like her, give them comfort and hope the way her father had tried to do. She could show them that they weren't alone. She could do so much for the world, if only her father would_ let_ her.

The carnival had provided the perfect opportunity. A simple fall, no pain, and the world would know. She had torn her eyes from his as she stood at the top, her arms spread out as she allowed herself to relax, to fall forward, down, down, until the earth reached up to meet her.

With that single moment she changed everything. She'd thought it'd be a chance to start again, to do something revolutionary for the world. She wouldn't have to hide; not only could she help, but she could finally figure out who she was. She'd never gotten a chance to explore it before; how could you be yourself when you had to pretend to be someone else, when you couldn't even keep your own name?

"My name is Claire Bennet, and this is attempt number... I guess I've kind of lost count."

The words rolled easily off her tongue, and amid the camera flashes and confused shouts, she finally allowed herself to look at her father. As her eyes searched the crowd, however, passing quickly over Sylar and the rest, she realized he had already gone.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

"Good morning, Miss Bennet."

Claire looked up from where she lay, her eyes bleary and half-closed. The woman walking toward her was dressed entirely in white, her bright red hair a stark contrast to the rest of the room. Her heels clicked lightly on the tiled floor, and she pulled a pencil from behind her ear as she stopped next to the bed, humming lightly under her breath.

"And how are you feeling this morning?" She asked. Claire pressed her lips together, narrowing her eyes slightly as the woman turned her arm over, checking the pulse on her wrist and taping the IV that led into her arm.

"We're making real progress," She said, scribbling something down on the chart in her hands. "The doctor thinks that it's only a matter of time before your neurons reconnect. Isn't that just wonderful?"

Claire felt a sudden wave of anger and revulsion towards this woman, thinking distantly that at least those feelings hadn't left her.

"Peachy," She said through clenched teeth, wishing she could knock the stark white teeth out of the older woman's mouth as she smiled.

"Good, good," The woman said, scribbling down something else before stepping back, turning away to the curtains over the window. "What do you say we let some light in here?" She asked, throwing open the curtains before Claire could respond. "It's so dreary in here," She said, cracking the window slightly. Claire closed her eyes as the breeze wafted in slowly, stirring the few strands of blonde hair that stuck to her clammy forehead.

"The orderly should be in soon with your breakfast," The woman chirped, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ears. "Then we'll move you to the operating room. Keep your chin up, dear. I really do think we're getting somewhere."

With those words the woman was gone, the door swinging shut behind her and locking with a heavy 'click'. Claire slowly opened her eyes again, flinching against the stark white light above her. The small amount of sunlight barely offset them, though she was grateful for the fresh air, something she never would have admitted to the woman assigned as her 'nurse'. She didn't even know the woman's name, though she'd thought of many ways to kill her in her spare time.

The room was empty except for the bed she lay on and a small bedside table, on top of which sat a nearly empty glass of water and an empty tray from the previous morning's breakfast. Everything was white; she may have felt as though she were in a hospital, were it not for the straps binding her to the bed and the fact that the view outside simply showed her a long, empty field, stretching on as far as her eyes could see. She knew that that was the reason they didn't mind allowing her window to be open; even if she did leave, she would never get off the property before they caught her.

Her eyes moved almost involuntarily up to the blinking red eye of the camera that was pointed at her bed, narrowing slightly at the men she knew sat behind it, watching her every minute of every day. If she took so much as a step out of place they knew, and it only took moments for someone to enter her room and reprimand her. She'd tried to escape too many times already. The punishments she knew they doled out to other patients were useless on her; what use were beatings if you couldn't feel pain? It was only once they began to threaten her family that she stayed put, taking every injection with a bitter taste on her tongue and a tight knot in her stomach, wishing she could kill them.

The dark path her mind had taken had alarmed her at first, though now the thoughts only gave her comfort, a rarity in this prison. The anger and hatred she harbored for them were what kept her feeling alive, feeling _human_, when everything else screamed that she was anything but.

When the door opened, she was surprised to find the redhead once more, a slightly apologetic look on her face as she approached the bed.

"There's been a change of plans. The doctor wants to see you now," she said. She reached down, her cold fingers undoing the bonds that held Claire down. The woman was fairly pale, and Claire blanched slightly at the stark contrast between their skin tones. Claire was no longer the tan color she once was; her skin was thin and brittle like paper, even paler than this woman's. She closed her eyes, knowing that blue veins could be seen through them, in the crook of her arm along with the scars from countless injections and drawn blood.

She sat up when the bonds were gone, ignoring the way her head spun at the sudden disorientation. She waved off the woman's half-hearted protests as she stood up, leaning on the bedside table until her legs adjusted to their sudden weight. The thin gown they allowed her to wear made her look like a ghost, she knew, though she still held herself up high, her back straight and chin raised, as she followed the nurse to the door.

She didn't even need the woman to lead her; she knew the way by now. The hallways seemed to stretch on into eternity, every door they passed housing another individual, another person just like her. She'd so often seen them rolled off on slabs, sheets covering their pale and bloodless faces, and felt rage burning in her blood. Why wouldn't they allow her to heal them? They knew what her blood could do, had used it before. Still, though, part of her was glad that those individuals no longer had to suffer; some part of her even envied them.

She was unsure how long she'd been inside this white prison. The last time she'd asked what day it was, the doctor had simply smiled at her from behind his glasses and said it was of no importance to her. It felt like it had been years, though she knew she hadn't aged a day, despite how awful she looked. She was the perfect experiment; she would never be obsolete.

The room she was led into was just as white as the one she'd left behind, perhaps even more so. There were no windows; just row upon row of unfamiliar machines and equipment and a single bed in the center. She felt her stomach clench tightly as the nurse sat her down on the bed, strapping her in snugly before stepping back, pulling her ever-present pencil out from behind her ear before hurrying out of the room, leaving her alone.

It didn't take long for the large double doors to reopen, and the man she'd come to associate with everything evil and wrong in the world to come into her view. He smiled at her, his lips thin and pale as he adjusted his glasses, reminding her too much of what her father used to do. That was where the similarities ended, however. His hair was thin and balding, his eyes a bright blue that set her on edge every time she met them with her own dull green ones.

"Miss Bennet," He said by way of greeting, and she felt her hands clench into fists at her sides, her nails digging deep into her own skin. She didn't feel a thing. "I have wonderful news," He said as he stepped closer, inserting an IV in one arm before attending to the other. "I think we've finally found a way to restore your senses."

Her heart seemed to slow in that moment. She'd been told that this had been the goal for weeks now, and though the nurse had mentioned it may have been achieved, she thought nothing of it. She'd said the same for so long that it had lost all meaning; the scientists were incompetent, unable to solve the puzzle of her mind after Sylar had destroyed it. There was no way that they had found a way to fix her; it wasn't possible.

"When you wake, you should be able to feel pressure once more. Pain," he said, and the way his eyes glinted made her stomach churn. "I'll see you soon, Miss Bennet," He said, and she saw the mask come down over her mouth and nose. She pulled hard against the bonds that secured her to the bed, but it did no good. Within moments she was lost.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

_They'd always had to run._

_ Packing and moving was the way her father had tried to solve everything, to hide her from the public eye, from those who might see her for who she truly was. After the night of the carnival, however, they could no longer run._

_ It was all they could do to keep the media off their lawn. Her father spent most of his time cursing and pacing in front of the door, a gun in his hand and his phone in the other, searching for some way out of the country, some way they could travel without official papers._

_ "They can't keep us here, Noah," her mother had said, but her father had simply given her a grim smile._

_ "They can do so much more, Sandra," was all he said._

_ And they had. Claire had tried to talk to the reporters, to lay bare all the secrets she'd been forced to hide, to evoke understanding and compassion from the general public where fear and hatred was already beginning to form. Her father was vigilant, however, and the few times she managed to leave he always dragged her back, whether she was willing or not._

_ She'd believed in the sanctity of the government. The company couldn't have them on strings; things were so much larger than the people her father worked for. They were still human beings, still U.S. citizens; they were guilty of no crime._

_ It turned out that didn't matter. She could clearly remember the night they came for her, dressed in uniforms with guns at their sides. Her father had fought to protect her, risking his own life in the process. She'd seen him shot, blood splattering the wall as he hit it hard before crumpling to the floor. It was his stomach they'd hit, the same spot where he'd taken a bullet for her before, it seemed. She watched through tear-filled eyes as her mother and brother rushed to him, her mother covering his body with her own and her brother meeting her eyes, an accusatory glance in his own. She didn't even know if he'd survived; they'd refused to tell her anything, no matter how much she screamed and kicked and fought._

_ That night she stopped believing in the sanctity of anything._

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

Her eyes flew open at the sound of a gunshot.

Her heart slowly returned to its normal pace, the sound unnaturally loud in her own ears. The room was empty save for herself, a pile of bloody rags and scalpels littering the table next to the bed. The sound she'd heard wasn't a gunshot but the slamming of the door, and she waited for her eyes to adjust to the light before looking back at it, waiting for him to return.

It only took her a few moments to remember why she'd been asleep. Panic seized her chest in an iron grip as she searched her body, feeling nothing once more. She pulled her wrists hard against the fabric of the bonds holding her down, but her body was slow to respond to commands, and the force with which she pulled was negligible, not enough to cause pain even if she could feel it. Her body felt as though it were suspended in water, and for a single panicked moment she wondered if he had taken away her ability to feel anything at all.

The door opened suddenly, and he smiled when he saw her eyes open, an image that made her turn away.

"Miss Bennet," He said, and she felt the hairs on her arms rise at the sound of his voice so close to her ear. "I think we've finally done it. Unfortunately, only you can let me know." She heard the clatter of metal next to her, but couldn't seem to find the strength to turn her head to look. "I'm sure you're still foggy from the drugs, but your system should flush them out soon enough. This may be dull, but I'm sure you'll feel something."

She opened her mouth to speak, to protest, to do _something_, but her lips were dry and cracked and her throat constricted. She heard the clang of metal once more, felt his breath on her cheek as he knelt down, the cool metal pressing hard against the skin of her arm.

It had been a few years since Sylar broke into her home until the carnival, until her capture. She'd felt no pain for those years, and had grown numb, complacent. It wasn't until she found herself here that she began to wish for it again. The things they did to her she had no doubt would have been excruciating, but at least she would have_ felt _them. She'd told her mother long ago that it was the pain that kept her feeling human. And while that was true, at least before she'd had other things to cling to: her family, Gretchen, anyone who she cared enough about to let into her life. They'd kept her human. But once they were gone, she felt nothing. She may as well have been a machine.

She'd longed for the pain, but the panic she felt upon its impending return was like nothing she'd ever felt before. Even with the warning, she was completely unprepared for what she felt when the knife cut into her skin.

It was as though every nerve ending came alive at once. From the tips of her toes to the top of her head she felt as though she were on fire, the center of the flame being the knife that dug deeper and deeper, touching her bone and cutting through her skin like paper. She was burning, dying, suffocating, drowning, choking, all at once. She felt Sylar's fingers in her brain, the pain she'd felt when he sawed open her skull. She remembered every cut and burn she'd endured since her 'gift' first manifested, each one stronger than the last, ending with the knife that was still slicing through her skin. A scream tore itself from her lips, her throat raw and dry and _painful_. Blood pooled beneath her arm, warming her cold skin and the goose bumps that had sprung up. Even as her skin knitted itself together he tore it open again, pressing harder when she thrashed against the binds holding her down, her muscles stiff and unyielding, her teeth biting down on her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Her hands burned where her nails dug into them, her throat was on fire with every scream that violently tore itself free.

She could feel tears on her cheeks, taste the salt on her tongue that burned her torn lip as it healed itself once more. The knife was pulled from her skin once it had begun to heal itself around it, and she hated herself for the words that spilled from her lips.

"Please!" She screamed, feeling the blood pool below her arm, the copper smell strong in the air, the taste on her tongue. "STOP!"

Her chest heaved, every breath burning her raw and unused throat, unused to so much exertion at once. Her arm tingled with pins and needles where the knife had entered, and though she knew she had healed, the phantom memory of the pain remained. She was human again, just like she'd wanted.

"Welcome back, Miss Bennet," The doctor said, casually wiping the knife on a rag on the table next to her. "Tomorrow we'll begin where we left off last week. There are some things I'm eager to try, now that you can respond more…effectively."

Claire listened to his footsteps as he left, the door swinging closed behind him. Her tears dried on her skin as she waited, listening for the sound of another voice, another presence. It felt like hours before the nurse returned, averting her eyes from the bloodied bed on which Claire lay. The woman didn't say a word as she led Claire back to her room, nor did Claire speak. She sat down on her bed and watched as the nurse locked the window once more, refilling her water and leaving the glass on the table. She was left free this time, the camera's eyes blinking steadily in the corner to make sure she didn't step out of place.

She listened to the clock ticking on the wall, counted the seconds until her mind began to wander. She found her eyes drawn to the glass cup of water time and time again, her chest tight and burning with something she couldn't identify.

She glanced at the camera out of the corner of her eyes before picking up the glass, throwing it to the ground and watching it shatter, sending shards of glass flying in every direction. She leaned down and picked one up, the sharpened edge glinting in the harsh white light from the bulbs in the ceiling.

"I'm human," She muttered, grasping the shard tightly in her right hand, feeling it cut into her skin before it healed. The pain was clearer now, more acute, and she wondered how bad it would have felt if the doctor had waited before testing out his latest operation.

She pressed the shard hard against the thin and fragile skin of her wrist, gasping slightly at the sudden pain as blood welled up around its tip. She dragged it slowly down the length of her arm, her eyes burning with tears as she cut deeper and deeper, the blood falling steadily onto the ground beneath her feet, quickly forming a pool. The pain was acute; it was real. It gave a certain relief, to be able to feel it once more. Humans felt pain; they didn't touch hot stoves, boiling water, or sharp objects. Their body told them that it would hurt, and they listened. Claire could feel a small, pained smile on her lips as she watched her skin patch itself together, her arm stained a deep red as she brought the glass back to the top, starting again, going deeper.

"Humans bleed," She whispered, watching the blood flow in steady rivulets down her arm. Though they usually avoided pain, they could _feel _it. She wanted to feel it. She wanted to remember it on her own, before the doctor made her remember himself. She knew what awaited her now; amputations, burns, chemicals, drowning. Everything they'd already done to her, but this time she would be able to feel it all. At least this way, she was in control, something she'd lost long ago. This small remnant was all she had left, and she would take it.

She pressed the shard deeper into her skin, wishing for more than a fleeting moment that the cuts would remain, that her blood would run out and onto the floor and never regenerate. Humans could die, a derisive voice in the back of her mind reminded her. They hurt, they bled, but they also died. It was part of the human condition; it was something she'd never experience.

Perhaps she wasn't so human after all.

_**To be continued. **_


	2. Pain

Claire had often found herself wondering who else shared this hell with her.

There were dozens upon dozens of doors in the hallways, and yet she'd never seen another person like herself, except when they were carried out on slabs, their faces covered with thin white sheets. The only other people she saw were the red-headed nurse, a pale-faced orderly who looked at her far too often for her liking, and the doctor himself. They were all nameless; she imagined it would be hard, if not impossible, to even pick the orderly out of a lineup. The nurse she may recognize simply because of her hair. It was only the doctor whose face she simply could not erase from her mind, able to see every detail clearly when she closed her eyes. It was an unpleasant feeling.

She was denied breakfast once more, led straight to the operating room. She found her eyes drawn to her arm, where she'd sliced her skin to ribbons until the nurse came in. By that point she'd found herself too exhausted to do anything about it but slide one of the slivers of glass behind her, tucked safely under the covers of her bed.

She could feel its weight tucked securely in her dress, the cool glass pressed against her skin as she waited. They'd made a mistake, leaving her with something that could be used as a weapon. They were often so vigilant about cleaning up, making sure she was left nothing potentially dangerous. They'd slipped up this time, and she fully intended to take advantage of it.

The thought of slicing open the doctor's throat brought a thin smile to her lips as she sat on the bed, finding a small amount of amusement in the way the redheaded nurse eyed her warily, strapping down her legs and wrists. She had only to endure this final session; when the doctor released her when it was over, she would kill him.

Time passed differently in this place. She was almost sure it had been years, years since she'd seen the sun or felt the rain on her skin, years since she'd seen her mother, father, and brother. She felt a small pang in her chest at the thought of her father, crumpled on the ground with his blood smearing the wall. She still didn't know if he was alive.

She pressed her lips together tightly when the doors swung open, not even needing to open her eyes to know whose footsteps were approaching. She let her face fall slack, her muscles relaxing, refusing to give anything away. She could almost feel the smile on his lips as he hooked up her IVS, pressing his fingertips to her wrist to take her pulse.

"I heard about your little escapade last night," He said, pressing a bit too hard on her skin. "I sincerely hope that doesn't happen again. I'd hate to have to put you in a more secure room. We like to reserve those for people who pose a real danger to others. And you don't, do you, Miss Bennet?"

She remained silent, counting the seconds that passed as he scribbled something down, taking measurements and calculations while she waited. She could hear him whistling a soft tune under his breath, something far too happy for the occasion.

"We've already found out how far we can push your body. Its limits are far beyond what we could have imagined; it seems as though you heal almost instantaneously from any kind of burn, cut, or break. Today, since we've so carefully repaired your mental state, we'd like to test your mental tolerance, if you will."

Claire could hear her heart beating in her chest as the doctor moved around to the head of the bed, though she still kept her eyes closed, squeezing them shut tightly. The only thing that kept her from a state of sheer panic was the comforting weight of the glass on her chest, easily within reach once her bonds were taken off. He could have his fun; she would have hers soon.

"Now, I'd like to begin with amputation…"

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

When Claire woke, she was back in her room.

It took a few moments to orientate herself. As the past few hours came back to her she flinched, feeling the sting of the blade and the burn of the flame that had continued for what felt like years. She looked down at her dress, covered in blood and other substances she couldn't, and didn't want to, identify.

He'd cut her into pieces. She'd already known that small appendages would regrow, but he had waited until now to cut more than a foot or a hand. She looked down at her leg, the skin translucent and pale, something that had regrown even as she watched, her stomach churning with bile that she had lost onto the smoothly polished tile floor. She could remember the pain, the blinding agony that overtook her entire body, enough to allow her the relief of unconsciousness, but only for moments. Her leg healed and her mind awoke itself, her own body betraying her wishes as he tested new chemicals on her skin, muttering under his breath as her skin bubbled and burned, dripping to the floor like melted wax.

He slit her throat, measured the amount of time it took for her skin to regenerate. He broke the bones in her arms, taking x-rays as the bones quickly reset themselves to their original positions. He filled her lungs with water, looking on with wide eyes as her body pushed it out with ease, the tissue of her lungs healing as air was pushed back inside. She thought, during the brief moments she'd managed to open her eyes, that she'd seen something akin to envy in his eyes. It was perhaps the last thing she'd expected to see; she knew he had a morbid fascination, but she'd thought it purely scientific. Why anyone would envy someone who barely passed as 'human' evaded her.

She sat up slowly, allowing her eyes to readjust to the lighting in the room. She remembered passing out shortly after he began breaking her bones, and not waking up again until now. She felt her stomach turn at the thought of her broken and crushed limbs, of the leg that was no doubt sitting in a freezer somewhere. Part of her wondered if they would use the tissue to help others, or if it was simply a morbid trophy for the doctor to place on his wall.

She felt nauseous; if not for the fact that she had yet to eat that day, Claire was sure she would have thrown up again. As she sat up, she felt something shift in her bra. With a sinking feeling she realized that the glass remained untouched; she'd missed her chance.

She expected anger, frustration of some sort, at herself and the situation she was placed in. Instead all she felt was a sort of numb complacence; her anger had been burned out in the first few months of her stay. Her hope had gone from a burning fire to a tiny ember, and she thought she could feel it extinguishing even as she sat motionless on her bed.

The door opened and she turned her head up, her eyes meeting those of the orderly who brought her meals. This time he had both a tray of food and a new nightgown slung over his arm. He set the food down on the table and the dress on her bed before stepping back, brushing brown hair out his eyes and watching her expectantly. Her stomach turned again.

"After your tantrum, they want me to make sure I take the dishes back with me as soon as you're done," he explained, and she felt her eyes narrow slightly, in spite of herself.

"Luckily for you, I'm not hungry," She said, glad to find that at least her words still held some bite where her body had given up.

The orderly seemed unperturbed, and instead nodded at the dress next to her on the bed. "Then I'm to make sure you clean yourself up and take the old dress away once you're finished," he said. Claire nodded, keeping her eyes on him as she picked up the new dress, stepping to the side to get to the small closet-sized bathroom next to him. There was simply a toilet and a sink, and though it would be hard, she would much rather clean the blood from her skin with the water from the sink than follow this man to the communal showers.

"I'm not supposed to leave you alone." His voice came from behind her as she stepped into the bathroom, and she felt her heart skip a beat as she spun around, glaring at him with a sudden surge of anger and strength that she thought she had depleted long ago.

"Well, you're going to while I change. It'll take less than five minutes," She said, gesturing at the room behind him. "Get out."

The man in front of her shook his head, a small smile on his lips. He couldn't have been older than 25, she thought distantly. Practically a kid; how did he end up here? His eyes moved from her face down her form, and she resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest and hide herself.

"Sorry, Miss. I have orders."

Claire could taste bile in her throat as she thrust the dress back into his arms, attempting to step around him before he could react. He reached out before she could even take a single step, his long fingers circling tightly around her wrist and yanking her back painfully. She heard the slam of the door behind him as he kicked it back with his foot, trapping them together in a space so small she could feel his breath on her cheek.

"Get out of my way," She said through clenched teeth, but he simply tightened his grip on her wrist, shaking his head.

"I think I've done enough for you to deserve something in return. Don't you?" He asked, and she thought of Brody holding her down against the bleachers, the way his body had felt against hers even while she screamed and struggled. She felt her breath coming faster, stirring the hair that hung over her eyes.

"Get the hell out of my way!" She shouted, trying once more to push past him. The time she'd spent in this hell had taken away most of the strength she'd had, and even that was minimal. She heard her back hit the wall as he shoved her away, a sickening 'thud' emitting from where her head connected with the concrete.

He didn't say a word as he grabbed her arm, twisting it painfully behind her back. He pressed her face against the wall hard enough that she tasted blood in her mouth. She was lying on a table in her home, helpless against Sylar's assault; lying on the couch as the man she held responsible for nearly all her nightmares pressed his lips against hers and took what didn't belong to him, what she didn't give; she was lying on the autopsy table, naked and exposed and vulnerable and _scared_.

This man had given her a strange feeling for months now, but everyone here did; it was hell, and she didn't expect any comfort from it. She'd thought the things they did to her were bad enough, that if there were any sort of God He would never allow anything else to happen to her, not after everything she'd already been through. She felt his hand on her leg, slowly pushing the thin material of her nightgown up, up, up, his hand grasping her hip hard enough to leave bruises, if she didn't heal so quickly. She couldn't breathe; her lungs were screaming, her body was coiled tight as a wire, but she couldn't move. Even when it had been Brody she'd found the strength to kick, to cry out, but here no one would hear her. The blinking red light on the camera outside the room was just another useless and objective eye, able to see her suffering but unwilling to do anything about it.

She could feel him pressed against her back, his lips on her neck. Her knees shook, threatening to give out underneath her and drag them both to the floor. There would be no escaping after that, she knew. As he pressed her harder against the wall, she felt something sharp cut into the soft skin of her breast, drawing a gasp from her lips. The man behind her seemed to take this as encouragement, sliding his arm up, up, his hand grasping her where she was bleeding. She heard a soft, confused sound come from his throat, and she thrust her elbow out into his stomach.

He let go and she took out the shard of glass, grasping it tight enough to draw blood from her own palm. His eyes were dark, narrowed at her as he regained his footing, reaching out for her once more.

She slashed at him with the glass, watching with a grim satisfaction as blood sprung up on his arm, quickly staining his white shirt red. She couldn't evade him in such a small space as he swung his fist, heard the sickening crunch as it connected with her jaw. She could feel the bones realigning, mending themselves as she shoved him backwards, a smile tugging on her lips as she heard his head hit the door with a loud 'crack', the way his eyes seemed to roll back in his head for a split second. She brought her foot down on his leg, watching as it bent to the wrong side, a thick crack echoing impossibly loudly in the small space. He spewed curses as she knelt down, pressing the glass to his throat, her chest heaving with exertion and adrenaline. She'd thought her strength was gone, but apparently all it took was a good reason for her to find it again.

She pressed the glass tightly into his throat, watching the blood well up around its edges as the gash opened further. It didn't heal.

She didn't think as she brought the glass across his throat, listening as he choked on his own blood, which quickly stained both her hands and the floor a deep, crimson red. She stood slowly, her legs trembling beneath her as she stepped around his body and forced the door open, her hands slipping on the knob. She wiped trembling hands on her dress, mixing his blood with hers, her heart pounding hard in her ears. The blinking red eye of the camera watched on impassively, though it only took moments for her door to burst open. The redheaded nurse looked at her in horror as several others she'd never seen rushed over to the orderly, who by now lay still in a pool of his own blood. His own doing.

Did you lose your humanity when you took away someone else's? She thought again of Sylar, of the countless people he'd murdered, simply for his own gain. She'd called him a monster for it so many times, and yet she had just done the same.

_'No,'_ a voice in the back of her mind protested_. 'He did it for selfish gain. You were protecting yourself.'_

_'But I can't die,'_ She thought, allowing herself to be strapped down by the other orderlies, who tightened her bonds until she lost feeling in all of her limbs. _'Why should I need to protect myself?'_

She felt the IV enter her arm, a cool liquid rushing through her veins almost immediately. She could feel it making its way quickly to her heart, pumping throughout the rest of her body until her eyelids became impossibly heavy. The last thing she saw was the man's body being carried out, leaving a trail of crimson in its wake.

_**To be continued.**_


	3. Reunion

The days passed like weeks, the weeks like years. Claire watched the spring weather outside slowly temper down, the air conditioning in the building running full force as summer set in. She imagined what it would be like to step outside, if only for a moment, and feel the sun on her skin. She couldn't remember what it felt like.

Summer passed in a haze. She was taken nearly every day to the same room, the same table, the same bloody tools and the same bright blue eyes. She thought that perhaps the pain would eventually dull down, that she would grow used to it somehow. She prayed for her mind to break itself in two, to prevent her from ever feeling anything again. She didn't understand how she could have ever missed something so awful.

She'd thought often of ending it all. She knew the spot in the back of her head that she would need to strike to turn off her power, to stop the mechanism from working and letting her rest. She knew, however, that they would simply pull whatever she had impaled herself with out and continue with their research. What she needed was an axe, something to decapitate herself before she could heal. It was the only way she could think of that would surely kill even her; however, it was impossible to do on her own, especially in this hell.

She was left restrained unless supervised by more than one person; they were apparently fearful that she would kill another one of them, uncaring of her own safety; after all, she couldn't get hurt.

They even refused to release her to eat her meals; she was fed through a tube like an invalid, and though her muscles didn't deteriorate like others would, she seemed to forget how to use them if left alone for a few days.

Summer turned to winter, and she thought she could remember being here when it snowed before. The flakes fell softly outside the window, which the redheaded nurse kept the curtains off of whenever she could, apparently pitying the blonde teenager she kept watch over. Claire didn't bother to count the days; they no longer mattered. If her father was alive, surely he would have come for her by now. The thought of him brought a pang to her chest, and she quickly pushed away his face, searching for something else to occupy her mind, her time.

It was Peter whom she saw next, the way he'd looked at her the day they'd met. "It gets better," He'd said, and she had simply smiled at him, not knowing just how wrong he was. He was her hero, sometimes even more than her father. He had saved her life before, and part of her wondered why he hadn't come to save her this time. Perhaps he was here as well…?

The thought was terrifying; what if he was here, simply farther down the hall, waiting for her to rescue him? She'd done it before, after all; she owed him more than he knew, and she expected him to carry the burden. But Peter would never allow himself to be caught, she thought; he's probably fighting against the government, urging love and acceptance instead of hatred and fear.

_'Peter,'_ she thought, watching through heavy lids as the snow fell harder, the glass on her window frosting over. _'Please be okay.' _

No, it was clear to her that no one would come to her rescue. And hadn't that been what she'd wanted? To take charge and be independent, to help others and insist that she could take care of herself? After all, what was danger to a girl who couldn't feel pain, couldn't die? At least one of those had changed, and she prayed the other would soon.

Her room was cold that night, and all of those after. She could feel the snow as though it were in her own room, clinging to her skin and melting only after freezing her to the bone. When she was taken back to the operating room once more, all she could think was that at least now, as he held a lit match against her skin, she would be warm.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

Winter was long this year.

Snowstorms became frequent, and Claire watched from her bed as snow piled up impossibly high outside her window. Obviously no one planned to leave until it melted, and she began to count the snowflakes that fell outside.

She shivered under the thin blanket they'd afforded her, listening to footsteps in the hallway as the orderlies made sure every 'patient' was secure in their beds. She listened to her door open slightly, then quickly close again as the man spotted her form lying prone on the bed. She waited until his footsteps had receded before propping herself up on her elbows, twisting her wrists painfully as she watched the storm rage on outside her window.

They'd never find her in all of that snow, she thought. She could disappear and they'd never know the difference. The thought was almost comforting, though the sudden chill in her room through the small cracks in the window quickly changed her mind.

She lay her head back down slowly, looking up at the ceiling high above her. It was hard to see anything in front of her face; only the dim light from outside gave her any amount of visibility, and even that wasn't enough.

She closed her eyes slowly, counting her breaths until sleep came.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

_"Claire-Bear."_

_ The word made her head snap up quickly, flinching at the sudden pain it caused. Her father's voice came again, softer this time, and she saw him there, standing in front of the window with a sad smile on his face. He held a small bear in his hands, holding it out towards her like an offering._

_ "I know you said you're getting too old, but I thought you could use this now."_

_ Her eyes quickly welled up with tears, and she couldn't have reached to wipe them away even if she'd wanted to. Her wrists were still bound tightly to the bed, and she watched with a tight chest as her father moved closer to her bed, setting the bear down next to her. His eyes were sad, and an increasing red stain on his shirt made her eyes widen._

_ "Dad-you're hurt," She said, keeping her voice as low as she could. It was then that she remembered the camera in the corner, and her heart seemed to stop._

_ "You have to get down!" She hissed, glancing behind her as far as she could, seeing the red eye trained intently on them. "They'll see you. How did you get here?"_

_ Nothing seemed to have sunk in yet. Her father stood his ground, seemingly uncaring of the danger he was in. How had he even gotten in? She didn't care; she just wanted him here. She wanted to hug him, to heal him—_

_ "Dad, please, help me up. I can heal you; you'll be okay," She said, but he simply shook his head._

_ "Claire-Bear," He said, and she felt the force of his words even before he spoke them. "It's too late."_

_ "No, it's not," She choked out, struggling once more to sit up. Her wrists screamed in pain as she twisted them to and for, struggling to fit her hands through the tight metal bonds. "Dad, I brought you back before! You told me they used my blood, even once you were dead-it's not too late! Please, let me help you!"_

_ He shook his head, and she pulled harder, twisting her arms until the small bones in her wrist screamed in pain. "Dad, please!" She screamed, no longer caring who heard, who came and saw. She felt a raw desperation in her chest, the same thing she'd felt when she'd seen him die once before, his glasses shattered and blood spreading quickly on the pavement. Even now the stain on his shirt spread, dripping onto the floor beneath his feet, onto the bear by her side as he leaned over her and pressed a soft, cold kiss on her forehead._

_ "I'm sorry," he said, and as he slid slowly to the floor, she began to scream._

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

She woke with a gasp, her chest rising and falling rapidly as her heart rate slowly returned to normal. The bed was empty at her side, the floor clear and clean. The snowstorm had increased in intensity; she couldn't even see anything but a thick sheet of white any longer. It was blinding.

Her wrists throbbed where she'd pulled against her restraints, and she slowly settled back down, struggling to push the dream from her mind. Her father wasn't dead; she would _know_ if he was dead, would know if she had caused his death. He was fine. He was always fine.

Still, though, the sinking feeling in her stomach didn't dissipate as the night dragged on, her mind running away from her, creating sicker and sicker scenarios. She closed her eyes tightly, willing them away.

It was then that everything exploded.

The lights above her fizzled on and then popped, glass shards raining down on her like the snow outside. The building lit up with a flash, and suddenly her door swung open.

A loud alarm blared throughout the building, and it took her mind a moment to catch up with her eyes. Somehow the electricity had been blown out; by the storm, maybe? She suspected they would be better equipped for weather with so many 'dangerous' people inside, but she didn't care. Her heart leapt into her throat as she struggled once more against her bonds, sensing her chance: now.

Screams and shouts echoed in the hallway, along with pounding footsteps and a few muffled gunshots. She could almost feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins as she closed her eyes tightly, bending her arm down on her wrist at the wrong angle, listening to the small bones in her wrist break in two. It still wasn't enough; to get her hand through the small cuff, she had to break her fingers as well. Her wrist had already begun to heal by the time she forced herself to do it, and she had to do it once more before she managed to pull her mangled hand free, watching as her fingers realigned and her wrist straightened, pushing back the bile in her throat.

She did the same with her other hand, unable to stop herself from losing her lunch onto the floor. Her head spun as she looked down at her ankles, at the cuffs that help her loosely to the frame of the bed. She closed her eyes tightly and stood up on her bed, her arms spread out on either side as she stepped quickly and hard the wrong way, feeling the bones crack. She curved her foot inward, but it was still impossible to maneuver through the small space allotted by the cuff.

She cursed loudly, gritting her teeth as her foot slowly realigned itself, turning her eyes to the door. It was still open, an automated mechanism that had gone out along with the electricity. She knew it was only a matter of time before they turned it back on, but from the sounds she heard in the hallways, she knew they had bigger problems on their hands.

Figures rushed past her room; she couldn't tell if they were patients like herself or workers. She screamed for them to stop, to help her, hating herself even as she did so. No one even turned their head, focused on either escaping themselves or stopping those who tried. Her throat was raw when someone finally paused by her door, turning his head towards her. She blinked as she met his eyes, silently begging him to help. He cursed softly under his breath before leaving once more, and Claire felt her heart sink in her chest. She would miss her chance; she would be trapped here forever.

A few moments later, however, the boy returned, a metal key in his fist. Claire's eyes widened as he handed it to her, waiting until she saw that it fit the locks that held her down before stepping away.

"Thank you," she managed, and the slight boy simply nodded before turning away again. He hadn't looked any older than fourteen, and yet he had risked his life for her, a complete stranger. She prayed he would be okay.

She undid the locks on her ankles and clutched the key tightly in her fist as she took a few steps on shaking legs, steadying herself in the doorway as she got her bearings. Red lights flashed overhead, the hall a mess of blood, dirt, and grime, a few bodies scattered in the walkway as others screamed and shouted farther down. Even as she stood there a few others dressed in white just like she was rushed by, terror and fear in their eyes as they struggled to find a way out.

The halls were like mazes here; she'd never seen anything that even remotely looked like an exit. She thought of the window in her room, but before her feet could take her back to it she realized she could find her way to the operating room.

She doubted the doctor was there now; after all, he no doubt had somewhere safe to hide in emergencies such as these. Still, she also knew that he spent countless hours in there at any time of day; perhaps he was still there.

Her mind screamed for her to turn around, to leave, but her feet wouldn't listen. She kept herself close to the wall, pausing as she passed other doorways, finding the beds empty. Everyone was fleeing.

She stepped around the bodies, keeping her eyes straight up; she didn't want to know who they belonged to. A few patients rushed by her, and she quickly ducked into an abandoned room as their pursuers passed by, firing guns and shouting obscenities. She waited only a moment before continuing on, pressed closely to the wall as she turned one corner and then another, her ears ringing from the wailing sirens.

The door to the operating room slid open easily beneath her fingertips. The bed was empty, though the sheets were burned and charred. A few small flames still licked the fabric, but she quickly tore her eyes away. He wasn't here. She was wasting time.

Somehow the power remained off. Claire knew that as soon as it turned back on she was lost; they'd never let something like this happen again, not after the bodies she'd seen scattered on the ground. She looked around as she stepped slowly and carefully out of the operating room, though the hallway she stood in was empty. A few bodies lay on the floor, but no one passed her as she slid slowly along the wall, no longer knowing where she was headed.

Her eyes didn't see the slight form curled up in the corner. The blood slicked her bare feet and sent her tumbling to the ground. The cold, glassy eyes of the boy who had rescued her stared up in a frozen expression of horror, his chest riddled with bullet wounds.

Claire felt her stomach turn as she stood up, nearly slipping once more as she hurried away. Her footsteps began to slow as the adrenaline wore off, and the hallway seemed to stretch on into eternity. Her body ached with a distant, throbbing pain, and she wondered if it was even worth it to continue.

A crash echoed softly from the door closes to her, and she stepped slowly closer, wondering if another person was trapped, just as she had been. Her feet carried her as though of their own accord to where the door stood open. From the doorway she could see that a still form lay under the sheet, IVs and other equipment attached to nearly every part of its body. She took a step forward, her body stiff and alert, as she counted the steps she took to the bed. It was nearly impossible to see; only when the flashing red lights passed near the room could she make out the form, but even then it was blurry, indistinct.

She didn't realize that she still held the key in her hand. She looked down at her now open palm, seeing the imprint it had left on her skin. She didn't think as she began to unlock the binds holding the figure down, thinking only of the boy in the hallway who had done the same for her. It was only once she had released both wrists and taken out the IVs that she heard it.

'_Cheerleader.'_

The word pulled her back from the fog her mind had entered. She spun around, but no one was there. The word repeated once more, and it was only then that she realized it was in her mind, spoken softly in a voice that sent shivers racing down her spine.

She slowly turned back to the form lying on the bed, the key slipping from her hands as they began a slow tremble. The lights from the hall flashed quickly by, but it was enough. Her eyes widened, and she was barely able to take a single step back before two hands shot up, grasping her wrists and pulling them together, yanking her towards him.

Her mind was moving slowly, as though she were in a dream. That's what this had to be: a dream. This entire night, this entire _year_, all of it had been a nightmare. That was the only explanation, and the only one she was willing to accept.

As he gripped her tighter, her mind quickly pulled itself from its stupor. No, this wasn't a dream. She stared down at the dark eyes that looked right back at her, the same ones that had haunted her nightmares for months when she still lived in Costa Verde.

"Sylar," she whispered, and he smiled.

_**To be continued.**_


	4. Escape

"Sylar."

The word seemed to hang in the air around them as he sat up slowly, releasing her hands and flinching as he ripped IVs from his arms that she had missed. Claire watched in stunned silence; the blaring sirens were nothing but muffled sound now as she watched the embodiment of her nightmares release himself from the binds she had loosened until only his feet remained.

"Claire," He said, and his voice felt like nails on a chalkboard, a shiver running from the top of her spine to the bottom of her toes. "Claire, we need to go," He said, his voice low and intense. He watched her carefully from beneath his thick brows, as though she were a deer he was trying not to scare away. "Give me the key."

Her eyes moved down to her now empty hands, and she shook her head, taking a step back as he reached for her once more. She nearly slipped, her feet still slick with the blood of the boy in the hallway. She could see the metal glint with the flash of the red lights in the hallway, the key kicked halfway underneath his bed. He must have seen her eyes drift towards it, because a moment later it was in his hands as he unlocked his feet, standing up and stretching as though he hadn't done so in ages.

He wore only a pair of white sweatpants; his bare chest glinted with sweat as he looked around, as though collecting his bearings. Claire imagined she could almost see the gears ticking in his mind, the cold calculation that had led to her losing her head, literally. She took another step back, but he wasn't even looking in her direction. It was as though she wasn't even there as he slid the key into his pocket, stepping towards the door. There was no window in his room; apparently they trusted him less than they did her.

"We need to go," he said, and she jumped, realizing he had turned back and was looking at her. The reality of the situation had yet to set in for her; not even ten minutes ago she was lying in bed, watching the snow fall outside her window. Now she was standing here with one of the few people she hated most in the world as he held out a hand towards her, urging her to escape with him. It was ridiculous, insane. It wasn't real.

"Claire, we need to go _now_," He said, and the urgency in his voice made her step forward, though she refused to touch his hand. He closed his eyes, his eyebrows turning in as he concentrated. "I can disguise myself as a guard; if anyone stops us, I can just say I'm taking you back to your room. Do you know where the exit is?"

Claire shook her head slowly, feeling as though she were under a microscope, though he barely seemed to see her. His eyes turned away as he cursed softly under his breath. She stood stiffly at his side, even while her mind screamed for her to run, to run as fast as she could away from this man, this monster. Her feet refused to listen.

"There's a window in my room," she said, and his head snapped back to her quickly. "There's a huge field-with the storm they'd never see us." The words seemed to have escaped of their own accord, though the logical part of her mind knew that she'd have a much greater chance of escaping if she went with him. Another part of her didn't want to escape; she'd given up already, and even entertaining the notion of escape would crush her if it didn't pan out. She closed her eyes, and saw her father's face from her nightmare, sad and resolved and painful. She had to know if he was alive; if only for that reason, she would go with Sylar. Just until they got out of the building; then she would leave him.

He seemed to be processing her words, and even as she watched he nodded, closing his eyes as his skin rippled and flowed, changing him into someone else. She'd never seen the man who now stood in front of her, but she supposed in this chaos it didn't even matter what he looked like, guard or not. As they stepped into the hallway he slid a jacket off one of the fallen guards, slipping it over his own bare shoulders before looking back to her.

"Lead the way," he said, and she nodded, her mouth and throat dry as she stepped in front of him, her back tingling at the thought of him standing so close, how easy it would be for him to kill her with her back turned. She retraced her steps quickly, turning her eyes away from the boy's crumpled form in the corner. It seemed as though the building had been abandoned; though the sirens continued to blare, no one was around. It was eerie, and Claire felt a shiver run down her spine as she turned another corner, glancing briefly at the fire still burning on the operating room's table. It was still empty.

Her eyes widened at the sound of approaching footsteps. She turned quickly to Sylar, but he had already heard; he pulled her into the nearest room, apparently unwilling to risk a confrontation. She could feel his fingers digging into her skin as they both unconsciously held their breath, waiting until the footsteps receded before stepping back out. Claire yanked her arm roughly away from him, her skin burning where he'd touched her. She turned the next corner slowly and, finding it empty, hurried into what had become her room.

Sylar hurried past her to the window. He pushed up on the hinges, but they didn't budge. Claire watched in a morbid sort of fascination as he, with a simple flick of his fingers, shattered the bullet-proof glass. And suddenly, the storm was inside.

Snow blew into the room as the wind nearly knocked her off her feet. The thin material of her nightgown made her feel naked against the assault, and she squinted her eyes to see through the storm as Sylar hopped over the ledge, reaching back to offer her a hand, looking like himself once more.

She stared at it, the fingers curling impatiently over to grasp her own, only to find that they weren't there. He had to shout to be heard over the howling of the wind, but still she could barely hear him.

"Claire!" He shouted. "Now isn't the time for this. You need to hurry!"

She felt her stomach turn as she reached out and grasped his hand, allowing him to lift her over the sill and into the storm outside. Almost immediately her vision was gone; she tore her hand away and used them to shield her eyes, but even then she couldn't see past the two feet in front of her, and only if she looked at the ground. She could hear Sylar shouting something over the storm, but his words were lost as the snow came in waves, her feet sinking beneath the several already accumulated feet.

She lost sight of him quickly, taking a few trembling steps forward as she shivered violently, her extremities quickly going numb. She still felt as though she were walking in a dream, watching from a distance as she stumbled through the snow in the endless field she'd often envisioned from her window. She couldn't even take pleasure in the fresh air; she couldn't breathe with the snow suffocating her.

She felt him grab her arm, and a gasp tore itself from her lips as he pushed her along roughly in front of him, ignoring her shouts of protest as she stumbled along, unable to see anything. She only managed to take a few steps before the ground fell out from beneath her, and the white swallowed her up. She could hear the roaring of the wind, feel the cold spreading throughout her body as the snow piled over her, the warmth of a hand on her arm as she was pulled up and urged along. She followed as though in a daze, wondering what lay at the end of the field. She imagined finding herself back home in Costa Verde, her father's arms around her, and the cold seemed to dissipate a bit.

The wind howled a mournful song in her ears, and she longed to stop and listen to it; her legs were numb, and she could no longer feel her fingers. Pins and needles spread throughout her body as her blood attempted to regenerate her body, pushing itself through every finger and toe until every step became agony. She gritted her teeth, focusing on placing one foot in front of the other, refusing to think of how far they had yet to go, how her feet screamed for relief as she placed them down time and time again in the snow, sinking down far enough to surprise her every time. She wondered if eventually she would just continue to fall.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

After what felt like hours, the pressure of Sylar's hand on her arm began to decrease.

She'd long ago stopped realizing that he held onto her, though she doubted she would have risked pushing him away even if she had. It would be far too easy to become lost in this landscape of whiteness, and she needed to find her way out, for her family.

The snow had begun to decrease in intensity, though it was still difficult to see, and even harder to walk. She turned slowly, struggling to see him through the mess of blonde hair that obscured her vision, whipped into a frenzy by the strong winds.

He was shivering violently, his lips a strange shade of blue that made her stomach turn. Even as she watched he lost his hold, stumbling for a few steps before falling to the ground, a small sound coming from his throat that sounded almost like a groan.

Claire stood stock-still, watching as his head lolled slowly to one side, his eyelids fluttering as he struggled to keep his eyes open. She could no longer see the building where they'd been kept, but that didn't mean anything; it was still hard to see through the falling snow. They could be within view and not know it.

"Get up," She said, unsurprised at the coldness in her own voice. "We need to keep going." When had it become we, she wondered?

Sylar didn't respond. He blinked at her confusedly for a moment before slowly nodding, struggling to pull himself to his feet before falling back into the snow. His fingers were blue and swollen, as were his feet. She looked down at her own skin, pale and unblemished, and shook her head slowly.

"Why aren't you healing?" She mumbled, but of course he didn't answer. She pushed back a fresh wave of nausea as she grasped his arm, struggling to pull him up, but he was far too heavy. The anger and frustration she'd felt since seeing him earlier that night came bubbling to the surface, and she bit her lip to keep in a frustrated scream as she nudged him with her foot, longing to leave him behind to die here. But he couldn't die; could he?

"Get up!" she shouted, a new kind of panic rising in her chest. The storm was dying down quickly now; it wouldn't be long before they would be visible, even from a distance. She could see the faint outline of the building they'd left behind in the distance, but it wasn't far enough; they had to keep going or risk being caught. She tugged desperately on his arms, but he was far gone; he was staring straight ahead, as though he couldn't even see her. She didn't think as she brought back one hand and hit him hard in the jaw, feeling something crack in both her hand and his mouth, but all that she got in response was a small groan.

As sickening as it was, as base as it felt to admit it, she knew that she didn't stand a chance of making it away from this place without him. He was deadly, a killer; he wouldn't want to go back either, and would fight and kill if he had to in order to stay free. All she had to do was make sure she wasn't in his line of fire, though even if she was, it wouldn't last long.

"Why aren't you healing?" She demanded, raising her voice as his eyes seemed to struggle to focus on her before sliding past, gazing at something far away that she couldn't see. "Sylar!" She shouted, but still he didn't move. "Look at me!" She screamed, grasping his face and forcing him to turn her way, eliciting a small moan when she bruised the small bones she had probably cracked in his jaw. "Why aren't you healing?"

"Took-it away," he slurred, and she rolled back on her heels, staring. His lips were a darker shade of blue now; she pressed two fingers against his neck, but she could barely feel a pulse beneath them. Somehow, it was true; he couldn't heal. And yet she had seen him use at least one of his other abilities.

She thought of Peter's father, her grandfather, and what he was able to do: take away abilities. What was to say these people hadn't found out a way to do it as well? She felt a strange, sick satisfaction at the thought of leaving him here alone to suffer and die, just as he'd made her suffer so many times. Meredith and Nathan were both dead at his hands; he didn't deserve to live. He'd taken away her family, and so many others. It wasn't fair.

She saw the orderly's face in her mind. It was only for an instant, but it was enough to make her sick. The small, dissenting voice in the back of her head, the one that reminded her constantly that she was more human than he, was silent.

Claire didn't think as she took the key from his pocket, closing her eyes tightly as she dug the metal into the soft skin of her palm until it split, her blood dripping slowly onto the carpet of white beneath them. She'd seen her blood heal others; it had brought her father back after death. It should be able to heal someone who had yet to die, shouldn't it?

She felt a small smirk tug on her lips as she picked up the key once more, dragging it roughly across the soft skin of his wrist until it tore the skin open, watching as he bit his lip while she pressed her palm against his arm, feeling her blood flow into his veins, praying to any God that might exist that his would not flow into her.

She watched his face as she waited, and it wasn't long before color began to return to his cheeks. His jaw realigned itself from where she'd hit it, his toes and fingers turning back to the color of his skin. When his lips lost their blue hue his eyes shot open and she pulled away, stumbling back in the snow as he stood up, looking down in obvious shock at his now-whole body.

"You-" He began, but she cut him off, shouting to be heard above the wind that had begun to pick up once more.

"Hurry up," She snapped, turning back towards the open field. There seemed to be no end, and she felt her chest constrict slightly at the sight. They would never make it out.

"Claire-" He began, and she spun around, glaring.

"Shut up!" she shouted. "I don't give a damn what you have to say! I only healed you so you could get us the hell out of here, so just shut up and _do_ something about it!"

The outburst startled her, but she also felt a strange sense of release, a warmth spreading throughout her body that offset the cold, if only for a moment. Sylar looked at her steadily for a moment before nodding.

"Then follow me," he said simply, stepping around her and beginning to walk. She glanced back at the bloody key lying in the snow for only a moment before picking it up, holding it tightly in her palm as she started after him, hoping that the storm would cover their footprints.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

Woods bordered the field once they reached the end. Sylar stepped inside of them easily, glancing back every so often as though to make sure Claire hadn't wandered off like an unwatched child. She bristled at the thought, stepping up her pace until she was walking beside him rather than behind, watching him from the corner of her eyes as they found shelter from the storm beneath the thick canopy of trees.

"Do you know where we are?" She asked, keeping her voice calm and level, the opposite of what she felt on the inside. Their escape still seemed like a distant dream, an impossibility that would be snatched away from them at any given moment.

"No," He said, ducking beneath a branch that he held back for her. "But I did hear a few of the workers talking about going to visit family in New York, when they thought I was unconscious."

She felt a frown tug on her lips as she stepped ahead of him, feeling a small stab of annoyance at their predicament.

"So you have no idea where you're going either," She said, and he didn't respond. "Why would you say 'follow me' if you have no clue where you're going?" She demanded, glancing back at him when he was silent. She caught the hint of a smirk on his lips as her eyes met his, and quickly turned away again, ignoring the way her skin shivered violently in the cold. The nightgown she wore was far too thin for anything other than summer, and even then she found herself huddling tightly beneath the covers they allotted her. She watched the tracks her feet left in the snow, praying that the oncoming snow would cover them before they were pursued. She hoped that the chaos back at the facility they'd left behind was enough to keep them occupied for now, or at least until the storm was over.

She supposed she should have assumed Sylar was somewhere in the building. She'd thought it impossible to catch him, but these people were obviously far more creative than she'd anticipated. She thought again of her leg as they'd taken it away, ignoring the way her stomach turned violently at the memory. How long had he been there, she wondered? Her stomach dropped as she thought once more of Peter, wondering if he was back there behind closed doors. She'd rescued _Sylar_, of all people. She should have looked harder for a familiar face, even if it meant her recapture.

Guilt gnawed at her conscience as she continued to trudge through the snow, listening to Sylar's labored breathing beside her. She didn't know how long the healing her blood had evoked inside of him would last, or if she would even bother to help him again if it wore off. She could find her own way from here, couldn't she? He had no more of a clue than she did.

The storm had picked up intensity once more, and it began to fight its way through the branches, whipping her hair around her face as she picked her way among the brush and branches. Her legs had begun to ache, and despite the fact that she knew she would continue to heal, she knew that she had to stop and rest if she hoped to continue on at more than a crawl. Her eyes scanned the area around them quickly, though all that met her eyes were more trees, more branches, all of them naked and bare from the winter's freeze. There was no cover from prying eyes, should they choose to look.

Claire paused in her stride when Sylar grabbed her arm, his fingers cold even against her own skin as he pulled her back, causing her to stumble on the uneven ground. The only thing that kept her from falling was his hand, and she flinched as his fingers dug into her skin. She quickly pulled herself away as soon as she regained her balance, opening her mouth to demand what the hell he thought he was doing when she saw the sharp drop less than a foot from where she stood. The ground dropped away, ending in a frozen river far below. Her stomach dropped with vertigo as she took a single step back, quickly turning her eyes away from his, refusing to acknowledge what he'd done.

He turned away from her, walking along the edge of the ravine. After a moment she reluctantly followed, keeping her eyes trained on the ground to avoid further missteps, wondering why he hadn't simply let her fall.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

They walked without words, each deep within their own minds. Claire watched her breath fog in the air, wondering what the temperature had become over the past few hours as they trudged through the snow. Sylar kept up his pace, though she noticed him stumbling more and more often as the hours passed. It wasn't until they found a crook behind a grove of trees that they stopped, settling close to the indented ground so that they wouldn't be spotted from above. Claire sat as far from him as she could while still remaining hidden, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest as she listened to the sounds of the night.

It was nearly silent; she could clearly hear Sylar's labored breathing to her left, and she glanced at him from the corner of her eyes, noticing the way he shivered, his breaths coming faster for a moment before slowing along with his pulse. The blood had almost worn off, she thought. If he slept now, he probably wouldn't wake up.

He turned his gaze on her, and she forced herself to hold it. She didn't see the same hunger, the same raw need for understanding and abilities that had always seemed to take hold of him before. She remembered the last time she'd seen him, speaking to 'Gretchen' about how they were similar, how having so many abilities could damage your humanity. She'd caught a glimpse of him from the top of the Ferris wheel, had heard Peter tell her how he'd changed afterwards, but none of it had mattered. He still held a place in her mind that she saved for fear, hatred, and revulsion, a mixture that made her sick to her stomach every time she saw his face, every time he appeared in her nightmares.

He didn't deserve forgiveness. He was still a monster, still the one who had played games with her life, her family. He had killed Meredith and Nathan, her parents, her family. He had broken into her home and ripped open her skull, forced himself on her, controlled her body like it was his to use for his own amusement. But somehow Peter had forgiven him, even after he murdered his brother. She'd never understood the whole story; she only knew that the few times she was able to see Peter after that night at the carnival, he had told her a bit about his time trapped with Sylar, about the revelations he'd had. If Peter could forgive him, after everything he'd done, why couldn't she?

The thought made her stomach turn. She didn't _want _to forgive him. She wanted to forget him and everything he stood for. She never wanted to see his face again. The bloodlust she'd felt everytime she'd seen him before had become a dull, numbing complacency. She'd accepted the hatred she harbored towards him, even embraced it. It was familiar, it was comfortable; it was all she knew.

He turned his eyes away before she did, and she felt a strange sense of relief. She bit her lip, scooting a bit closer to him as she looked at her arm, the bloodstains left from where she'd healed him before. She looked down at the key she still held in her hand. She could feel his eyes on her as she dragged the teeth roughly across her skin until it broke, glancing at him as he held out his own arm wordlessly, allowing her to do the same to him. She gritted her teeth as she pressed the wounds together, closing her eyes tightly as she struggled to ignore the warmth rushing quickly back into his own skin as her blood healed him from the inside out. She slowly pulled her arm away once her wound had healed, scooting away from him once more. She gripped the bloody key tightly in her palm, her stomach turning at the thought of using it again.

"Why don't you let me die?" He asked.

His voice made her jump, her eyes turning quickly to his, surprised at the genuine curiosity she found there. He was expecting her to kill him, to leave him in the snow until he froze from the inside out. That would have been too painless a death, she thought distantly, unsurprised at the dark turn her thoughts had taken. She'd thought often of killing him even before her imprisonment. She'd wanted him to feel as helpless as he'd made her feel.

"Why don't you just take my power like you did before?" She demanded, realizing as she spoke that she'd been wondering for hours now. They were far enough away that her screams wouldn't attract any attention; he could easily take her powers once more, even kill her as he did so. She was no longer the catalyst; she was just Claire. Even if she could heal, destroying her brain would be enough to keep her down forever. He knew that.

"I don't do that anymore," he said, with such simple certainty that Claire felt herself reel back. "I've learned that I'm capable of taking abilities without killing," he said. "Like Peter." At the sound of her uncle's name Claire felt her blood warm, angry that he could even think of comparing himself to Peter. "It's empathy. I've only done it a few times, but I know it's possible."

"Empathy," she repeated, hearing the disbelief in her own voice. "You're capable of empathy?"

He sighed, as though she were a child incapable of understanding certain things. She felt her hands clench into fists at her sides as he opened his mouth once more.

"I understand things, Claire. Machines, problems, solutions. I can break them down into parts and figure them out. With people-it's different. They're harder to understand because they don't function like machines. There are too many variables. I can only take an ability through empathy if I understand them, and if they choose to understand me. I can't just take it; they have to let me. Or at least, that's how I've come to understand it."

Claire couldn't bring herself to believe his words, despite the sincerity in his voice. He was Sylar; he wasn't Gabriel, wasn't human. He was never capable of empathy; if he had been, it had disappeared long ago. She could feel her mind racing as he watched her, as though waiting for a reaction, a confirmation of his words. She shook her head slowly, feeling her nails dig into her palms as she clenched her hands into fists tightly.

"I'll never understand you," She said softly, her voice tense. "And you'll never understand me. I'll never let you have my ability again, Sylar. You deserve to die."

He didn't react, as though he'd expected as much from her. Instead he simply nodded, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the tree trunk behind him.

"I know," he said simply, and then he fell silent.

_**To be continued.**_


	5. Acceptance

Claire woke when a loud crash echoed through the branches. It only took a moment for her to be completely awake, her eyes wide and heart pounding hard in her chest as she struggled to get her bearings in her new surroundings, the previous night rushing back over her like a wave.

She froze when she heard another branch snap, pressing her back against the tree trunk behind her, slowly sinking further to the ground in an effort to hide herself in the small depression in the ground. There was a small amount of room to squeeze under the sudden drop, where she wouldn't be seen by anyone walking by unless they cared to look beneath their feet. It was barely wide enough for her to squeeze into; that was why she hadn't tried the night before, and didn't look forward to doing it now.

It wasn't until that moment, listening to the shouts coming closer and closer to where she sat, that she remembered Sylar. She quickly looked to her left, where she'd seen him the night before, but he was gone. Had he wandered off in the night? She cursed softly, knowing that she stood much less of a chance against them without him. Just because she was indestructible didn't mean that she could do significant damage, especially not in the state she found herself in now. Her muscles ached despite the fact that she wasn't injured, and she wondered when the last time she walked for so long had been.

They were getting closer. She was able to understand their words now, and she closed her eyes tightly, cursing once more before getting down on hands and knees and determining to fit into the small crevice.

He was already there. Perhaps he'd crawled in for warmth during the night, but his eyes were open now, though distant and glazed. She recognized the expression from the previous night, when frostbite had nearly taken his life. She hated that she couldn't leave him this way, hated that she needed him for any reason, even if it was just to survive the moment. His eyes seemed to focus on her for a moment, and he gestured at the small amount of space in front of him, urging her to hide with him.

She shook her head; somehow he had fit, but his legs were bent awkwardly and his head ducked down. If she was going to squeeze in with him, she's have to curl up in front of him, pressed against his chest. She'd have to _touch_ him, and that was something she refused to do.

It didn't seem to matter. A moment later she heard a shout, closer than ever, and panic seized her chest. She pushed back the bile in her throat as she quickly crawled under the small crevice, pressing her back against his chest and pulling her knees to her own, making herself as small as possible, and waiting.

She could feel his heart beating slowly through the thin material of her nightgown, though his body gave off almost no heat. He was dying again, and she found a sick sort of satisfaction knowing that she was the one in power now, that she was the one who held his life in the palm of her hand. Part of her wanted to step out, to lead them to him and watch as his blood stained the snow red. But they would take her back if they saw her.

She stiffened as a pair of boots walked by, pausing where she'd slept the previous night.

"They were here," A voice called, and she heard scuffling as several more came over. She pressed herself back farther, forgetting for a moment whose arms she was encircled in. She could feel the stubble on his cheeks against the back of her neck, and shivered lightly as he shifted slightly, his breath tickling her skin and stirring her hair.

The boots paused in front of their hiding spot, and her eyes widened. She squeezed her eyes closed tightly, offering wordless prayers to anyone who may have been listening. She only saw a pair of bright blue eyes, glinting strangely as hands pried her open and apart, pulling out organs and tissue and watching as it grew back. She heard a sharp intake of breath, and bit her lip hard when she realized it'd come from her, knowing that she could very well have just given them away.

Sylar stiffened behind her, and she knew that he'd heard her. She felt his hand on her shoulder, his long fingers curling around her arm. She was unsure if it was a threat or some sort of gesture of comfort. She frowned; Sylar knew nothing of comfort. She didn't understand why he wasn't handing her over to them right now. Surely he still had some of his powers, or at least enough to escape. Why hadn't he left her behind? If she could have made it on her own, she would have left him to the elements as soon as they'd left the building behind them.

She opened her eyes slowly, watching as the several pairs of boots in front of them shifted, milling around as they picked up the key she'd left behind, the only thing she could use to heal Sylar from the cold once more. She felt both a sudden relief and dread, the combination of which was startling and nauseating at the same time. She pushed back the bile in her throat once more as the footsteps approached and receded, as though the men were pacing, waiting for orders. Claire held her breath, only letting it out slowly when the last pair of boots began to step in the other direction, their muffled voices carrying away on the wind that still howled through the branches.

She wasn't sure how long they stayed that way, curled up and huddled under the small crevice in the hill. She could feel Sylar shivering behind her, and knew that the reason he stayed still was for warmth. She waited, listening for any sound of the men returning, wondering if they were simply waiting for her to emerge to take her back. She closed her eyes once more, refusing to torture herself with every small movement that the wind produced. She would wait.

She would have forgotten about Sylar's presence, were it not for the way his body trembled with each gust of wind, the way he seemed to consciously attempt to keep as far from her as possible in the tiny space. She was unsure if that was simply her imagination; however, she was grateful for the little contact. She could hear his breath slowing once more, and it wasn't until his head lulled against her shoulder that she wondered if he was already dead.

She didn't know how long it had been since she'd last heard anything outside of the crevice. Time had somehow slowed down; it could have been minutes, or even hours. She hesitated for a moment longer before slowly pulling herself from the cramped position, flinching as her legs regained circulation quickly, the pins and needles sharp and painful. She pressed a hand to her neck, struggling to forget the way his breath had felt as it warmed her skin.

He looked as though he were sleeping. His eyes were closed, the only sign of his breathing the slight stir of the hair that hung over his forehead. She'd always seen him composed in his own way, his mind ticking away the ways he could make others suffer the most. She could barely remember the few moments when she'd considered the possibility of their similarities, when she'd thought that maybe he was right in saying they had so much in common. She thought again of the orderly, his blank and glassy eyes staring up at her, and shivered.

"Get up," She said, struggling to be heard over the wind while still remaining quiet enough to remain undetected. She nudged his shoulder, but the only response was a small groan as he pressed his face further down into the snow, his skin a bright and angry red. She grabbed his shoulder, struggling to pull him from the small hole where he hid, though she barely managed to move him an inch. He was out cold, and she was alone in the middle of the wilderness with a group of men hunting her. She couldn't afford to take an invalid with her.

She stumbled to her feet, taking a step back from him. She knew that she stood a greater chance with him, but that was only if he had retained any of his abilities. If he had, why hadn't he used them the night before? She stood a much better chance on her own now; she could move quickly, and the cold wouldn't slow her down, not like it would him. She couldn't afford to keep stopping to heal him, and she'd lost the key she'd used to cut his skin. She didn't even know how she'd do it again.

This was what he deserved, she told herself. He'd killed Meredith and Nathan. He'd killed so many others, people with families, friends, lovers, children. He never thought about them, only himself. Peter had to have been wrong about him; he hadn't changed. Someone with that much darkness in their heart didn't just rehabilitate themselves.

She would leave him just as he had left her lying prone on her living room table, trembling with fear and shock, her skin crawling with his touch. She would leave him just like he had left Meredith to burn, Nathan to bleed, and everyone else to deal with the aftermath of his anger. Finally, the monster could die. And he would die slowly.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

The storm was passing. Claire watched as the sky slowly became visible through the falling snow, knowing that she would be much easier to find now. She attempted to cover her tracks through the snow, but eventually she gave up, praying that the new snow would simply cover them up. She didn't walk in straight lines, and stepped over frozen rivers whenever the opportunity presented itself. She hadn't heard a sound in over two hours, and she was beginning to wonder if she'd truly made it out.

She would go home, find her family, and get her life back. She pushed away the nagging voice in the back of her mind that insisted that she had nothing to return to; she hadn't had a life before she'd left. Jumping from the Ferris wheel had changed everything, and part of her didn't want to know what she would find once she stepped back into the real world after being cut off from it for so long.

How long had it been? She could remember at least one other winter, watching snow fall from her bed near the window. Beyond that, however, her memory began to blur. It could have been two years, or it could have been several. She wouldn't know the difference; she wouldn't age any longer.

Had Sylar looked any older? She wasn't sure, though it wouldn't have been reliable. They could have taken his power days ago or years ago. She felt a frown tugging on her lips at the thought of him curled up in the snow, slowly freezing from the inside out, but quickly pushed it away. He deserved so much more pain than he was getting; she was being merciful.

It was only after a few more hours that Claire began to wonder if she was even heading out of the woods. She tried to stay on one course, hoping to eventually find a way out, but varying her pattern had made her lose her sense of direction. For all she knew, she could have been wandering in circles. The thought made her chest tighten with anxiety, but she pushed it away, refusing to panic. She would be fine.

The lie tasted bitter on her tongue as she whispered it to herself, finding her own voice strangely loud and startling in the sudden silence that had fallen when the winds died down. The woods were beautiful with such a fresh layer of snow, but she couldn't stop to appreciate it. She had to keep moving, and she had to go quickly. She would not go back to that hell.

Still, though, she would have to rest eventually. She could see small shafts of sunlight spilling through the clouds, making the snow sparkle as she narrowed her eyes, struggling to see farther ahead. It may have been midday by now; night wouldn't come for hours, and her feet were tingling with pins and needles that spread up her legs, making each step a painful struggle. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, trudging forward with a grim determination.

She heard their voices from a distance a few hours later.

For a moment she thought that she had found a road, that she heard civilization calling to her with open arms. It wasn't until she continued walking and never reached an end that she realized the voices were coming from behind her, from within the woods, and her heart seemed to stop.

She spun around, cursing softly when she realized that her footprints were clear and crisp. The snow wasn't falling quickly enough to cover her tracks; if they saw them, she would be easy to find.

She could see their forms in the distance, their voices growing louder as they spotted her own. It took a moment for her body to register her mind's commands to turn around and flee, and when it did, she wasted no time in taking off in the other direction, her legs screaming in pain with every step.

They would follow her tracks and find her. But maybe she could find a break in the foliage, a road, _something_. She'd made it too far to go back. But as the voices increased in volume, she knew that it was only a matter of time.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

Claire found a thicket of trees, though she knew even as she slid to the ground behind them that she would be found. Her chest was heaving as she struggled to catch her breath, pins and needles shooting throughout her entire body as the cold settled in more heavily. She'd torn her nightgown even further during her run, and she could feel the snow on almost every inch of her skin, the cold settling deep into her bones. Maybe she couldn't die from frostbite, but the pain was still real.

She pressed her back against the bark when she heard their voices once more. If she moved now, they would see her for sure. Perhaps if she stayed still enough, they would continue on…

She held her breath as she heard their voices, closer.

"The tracks lead this way."

"There's only one set. Where's the other?"

"We'll find him next. Let's just take her in first. The doctor won't be very happy to have lost this patient."

She saw blue eyes, thin and curving lips that smiled when she screamed, and shivered from something other than the cold.

"Here!"

She closed her eyes, slumping back against the bark as they rounded the bend, hauling her roughly to her feet. She pulled feebly against their grip, but her body had long since given up, even if her mind still screamed. She couldn't hear their words any longer; she allowed herself to be pulled along, stumbling several times before one of them cursed, kicking her hard in the side to encourage her to stand on her own two feet. She could feel the bitter smirk on her face as they spoke among themselves, paying almost no mind to their ward.

It was only when she stumbled for the fifth time that they finally turned towards her, anger written clearly on their features.

"Get up," One of the three demanded, but she just shook her head, unable to wipe the smirk from her lips even under his furious gaze. What could they do to her?

"I said, get up," he repeated, and she just laughed.

"No," She said, and felt her breath leave her lungs as his foot met her ribs, ignoring the crack she heard loudly in her own ears. The pain didn't come. She waited for another kick to bring it on, but nothing happened. She heard a scream, a crack, a thud; she could smell the copper tang of blood as she slowly opened her eyes and found herself looking directly into the unseeing eyes of the man who had kicked her, dead.

She sat up slowly, her head spinning as she looked at the blood slowly pooling around the second man's slit throat, the third unconscious on the ground. The man in front of her had his neck turned at an impossible angle, and she realized with a sick stomach that his neck snapping was the crack she'd heard, not her own ribs.

She watched as Sylar collapsed onto the snow next to her, his chest heaving slowly as he looked at the blood spreading quickly on the white snow, his hand stained with it. Claire watched with wide eyes as he looked at her, his mouth moving slowly to form words that she couldn't hear over the roaring her own ears. He slumped over slowly, his chin resting on his chest as he became unresponsive once more, his fingers and toes a bright and ugly blue. Claire could hear her own heart beating in her chest as he fell to the side, unconscious.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

It didn't take much for her to bite down hard on her lip, feeling the blood trickle slowly down her chin as she collected it on the tip of her finger. She glanced down at the man lying in the snow in front of her, completely and utterly vulnerable and open. She turned her eyes away as she allowed the blood to pool from her finger and into his slightly open mouth, repeating the process until he began to stir, his tissues regenerating and skin turning back to its normal color.

She felt a strange sense of complacency and numb acceptance as he looked at her, a question in his eyes that he didn't voice. She opened her mouth slowly, finding her throat strangely dry as she managed to speak.

"Why?"

The word seemed to hang in the air between them, and it seemed an eternity before he answered, his voice hoarse from disuse.

"I don't want to go back."

She nodded slowly, glancing briefly back at the men who had nearly returned her to the hell she'd escaped. With Sylar's help, she accepted grudgingly. Necessity called for sacrifice, and he was hers.

She knew that he could have escaped without her. He didn't have to kill them, unless he was counting on her healing him. After she'd left him, however, did he really think she would have done it? And yet she had.

The thought gave her pause, and she felt her head spinning as she struggled to understand what had just happened. Neither of them would make it out on their own, would they? He needed her healing, and she was finally accepting that she still wasn't safe, even this far from the compound. The idea that he had saved her life, however, weighed heavily on her conscience. She had deserted him, and he had saved her.

She felt a sharp stab of anger at him for the position he'd put her in. Her hatred was what kept her going; it was what she fed on during the long months of solitude. Hatred for herself, what she'd done. Hatred for the doctor who laughed at her pain. Hatred for the world for doing this to her kind. And hatred for him, for Sylar, for giving her the capacity to feel both nothing and everything at the same time. No pain, but so much fear. Vulnerability. She couldn't blame everything on him. She'd made her own mistakes, but he had made so many more. He'd torn her family apart right after she'd put the pieces together. He'd taken Peter from her, she realized slowly. Once Peter believed in Sylar's humanity, she was alone in her hatred, separated by a strange barrier from the hero she'd always believed in. Sylar had corrupted him.

She felt her hands clench into fists at her sides at the thought, and ignored the way he stared at her as she stood up, glancing once more at the bodies at her feet before turning to him. She was comfortable in her anger; it was where she would stay. If she stepped outside of it, she wouldn't be able to look him in the eyes.

"Where do we go now?" She asked, and he smirked slightly, the sight sending shivers down her spine.

"Up," He said, and offered her a hand.

_**To be continued.**_


	6. Waiting

Claire felt her stomach drop as she looked at Sylar's outstretched hand, his eyebrows raising slightly as he waited. She couldn't find it in herself to grasp his hand, much less to allow him to use the ability that he had stolen from her father.

His eyes followed her hand as it fell back to her side, and she imagined that she could see the gears turning behind his eyes, slowly following her train of thought before arriving at a rather unpleasant destination. He didn't try to defend himself, she realized distantly. He simply waited, leaving his hand where it was.

"They will come back," Was all he said, though he seemed content to wait, to not leave her behind as she had left him. She glanced back at the mangled corpses lying in the snow, as the only man who lived began to stir, and bit back her protests as she stepped closer to Sylar.

"How far can you go in your condition?" She forced herself to ask, pushing back any emotion that struggled to bubble up towards the surface. He shrugged, glancing up at the bare tops of trees for a moment before looking back at her.

"I'm not sure. Far enough. I can get us out of the woods, find a safe place to land. We can figure out where to go from there."

Claire wanted nothing more than to tell him that there wouldn't be any 'we' once they'd left the forest behind, but bit her tongue. She hadn't hated herself as much as she did at the moment she took his hand in a very long time. He wrapped his arms around her thin frame, waiting until she stepped onto his feet before leaving the ground far behind, rising up, up, above the tree tops and into the snow that still fell.

Claire glanced at the ground only once before closing her eyes, unable to help the way her head was pushed against his chest as the wind whipped loudly by her ears, nearly knocking her thin frame off balance as they ascended higher, higher, until she wondered how he wasn't blinded by the snow.

A moment later, the storm seemed to cease, the world becoming strangely silent. She slowly lifted her head away from the faint beating of his heart, looking around with wide eyes. The only other times she had found herself this far off the ground, she'd been too busy with either fear or wonder to truly take in the view. They were somehow above the storm; the only thing that surrounded them were clouds, thin and wispy, and barely a breath of air stirred her hair. She felt her breath leave her all at once, her chest empty as she held what little she had, unwilling to disturb the strange peacefulness that surrounded her. It was strangely beautiful, and were it not for the man whose arms she felt wrapped securely around her waist, she imagined she could have looked at it forever.

As it was, however, it only took her a moment to remember who it was she was with. She turned her eyes up towards his, finding the same wonder and reluctance mirrored in his own dark eyes. When he turned his gaze towards her she quickly looked away, felt the way he sighed against her cheek, and waited for her feet to find the ground again.

It seemed hours later that he told her he was heading back down, though the storm was gone. Wherever he had taken them, its reach hadn't yet extended this far; or perhaps it had simply ceased everywhere. She waited until he tapped her on the shoulder before opening her eyes, looking at the ground that was suddenly beneath her once more, crisp with freshly-fallen snow. She stepped off of his feet quickly, glancing around at their new surroundings and struggling to place herself.

They were in an empty corn field, the plants long since decomposed and abandoned. The woods only lined one side; the other was lined with a road, unplowed but still navigable, though no one drove by in the few moments she stood, watching. There was an abandoned home next to the field, and Claire found herself wondering distantly why it had been left behind. She could hear the soft crunch of snow beneath her bare feet as she started towards the road. She would flag down a car, get a ride to the nearest airport, something. The fact that she had no money to pay her way hadn't yet crossed her mind. All she needed was a phone; she could call her father, find out where he was. He could come and get her; he always did when she needed him.

She heard Sylar's footsteps behind her when she reached the road, and it was only then that her body caught up to her mind, making her pause in her steps as she reached the edge of the road, empty as far as she could see on either side. She felt his hand on her shoulder and quickly and impatiently shrugged him off, starting down the road with a determined stride. She would find her own way.

"Claire, _stop_," He said, and she felt his hand on her shoulder once more. She didn't think before reacting as she pushed an elbow back into his gut, spinning around and pushing him back onto the snow, watching with a somewhat satisfied smirk as his breath left his lungs in a 'woosh' and he struggled to regain it.

"Leave me alone, Sylar," She said, taking a step back from his prone form as he struggled to regain his footing. "Don't follow me."

She hated the way he looked at her as he stood up once more, as though she were simply a child who didn't know any better, throwing a tantrum when she didn't get what she wanted.

"Claire, where are you going? Home?" She hated the way the word sounded coming from his mouth. "How are you going to get there? You look pretty suspicious, covered in blood and only wearing a tattered nightgown." She unconsciously folded her arms in front of her chest, narrowing her eyes slightly as he continued. "And even if you don't get the police called on you, how are you going to pay for a plane ticket? Or are you going to walk?" When she didn't respond he continued, his voice less severe now. "Claire, do you even-Do you even know if your family is alive? I heard the orderlies talking. Things have gotten bad outside of those walls. Anyone who even associates with a 'gifted' is being rounded up. People are dying, Claire."

"You think I don't know that?!" She demanded, the severity of her tone surprising even herself. "I'm perfectly aware of what I've done!" She felt her hands clench into fists at her sides, struggled to hold back the frustrated tears that she felt pricking at her eyes. "I'm the one who caused all of this," she said through clenched teeth, gesturing widely as though to encompass the world in its entirety. "I'm responsible for any death or destruction that's happened since that night at the carnival. I _know_ that, and I sure as hell don't need _you _reminding me." She ignored the way he opened his mouth as though to protest, cutting him off before he could even begin. "And I don't need you patronizing me, either. I'll find my own way home, without you. I've felt sick ever since I set eyes on you. You're free now; go. Isn't that what you wanted? Hell, with all the chaos going on, I'm sure you'll have no trouble rounding up more abilities."

She could hear the venom dripping from her own words, watched as he opened his mouth once more. She cut him off again, feeling her nails dig into the soft skin of her palms as her anger found an outlet. "And yes, I know, I know. You don't _do _that anymore. Excuse me if I find that hard to believe."

She could feel her chest heaving, her breath coming in quick pants as she stood there, watching him, waiting, though for what she wasn't sure. He was silent, no longer attempting to interject, apparently waiting for her to continue. She just shook her head, turning on her heel and continuing down the road, hating the way his words refused to leave her mind. He was right, logically. She had to find new clothes, a phone, something so that she could contact her father, or her mother, or her brother. She would get nowhere without knowing where she was; she could be heading back towards he place she'd just escaped, for all she knew.

She glanced back, unsurprised to find Sylar gone, unable to differentiate his new footprints from the old ones. She thought perhaps he'd flown away, finding his own way. _'Good riddance,'_ she thought, glancing back at the abandoned farmhouse only a few paces behind her. It was a longshot, but maybe whoever had lived there before had left something behind.

She ignored the way her heart screamed for her to continue on, to find her way home as soon as possible, but she ignored it, choosing instead to listen to the logic that Sylar had so graciously imparted on her. She bit her lip as she shouldered open the door, listening to the wooden structure creak beneath her weight as she stepped into a living room that was lined with a thin coating of dust. There was a small dining room off to the side, a wooden table adorning its center, though the chairs were missing. The small kitchen had cupboards covered with peeling blue paint, a light color that reminded her of the sky she had just flown through. She tore her eyes away and towards the small sitting room, a threadbare couch adorning its otherwise empty structure. A fireplace sat empty and abandoned, a small iron poker laying on its side in front of it. She turned her eyes towads the stairs, heading up carefully, listening to the wood creak beneath her weight and praying that it wouldn't collapse.

There were only a few rooms upstairs. She opened one slowly, finding what she assumed had once been a bedroom or a study. It was empty now, save for threadbare and tattered drapes the same color as the cupboards downstairs covering the window. She closed the door behind her as she turned back to the hallway, opening the next door and finding a similar setup. This room, however, held a bed that looked as though it had seen better days. She could see a few springs sticking up from its frame, though there was still a woolen blanket on top of it. There was a small trunk at the foot of the bed and open closet doors through which she could see a few items of clothing hanging, left behind by whoever had hurriedly evacuated their home. She ran her hands lightly over the frayed fabric of a few small dresses, leaning down and picking up a white button-up shirt, nearly choking on the dust that it emitted when she lifted it from the floor.

She turned back to the chest, kneeling on the ground and lifting its lid slowly, ignoring the feeling that she was invading someone else's life. She lifted a few more items of clothing from the top, pausing when she came to a small pile of paper. The first was an old letter, its pages yellowed and faded. She found herself holding her breath as she unfolded it carefully, her eyes scanning its contents quickly. A woman writing to a lover, she guessed. It was dated 1954, though she assumed that whoever had abandoned the home had done it much later than thought, the letter being only a keepsake.

She set it aside carefully on top of the clothing, next closing her hand around an old golden watch. She felt her eyes widen slightly in surprise at the fact that it continued to tick, though she had no idea if it was correct or not.

"It's running three seconds fast."

Claire jumped, spinning around towards the source of the voice, her heart pounding loudly in her chest as she forced herself to her feet, frantically searching for some sort of weapon. Her panic only slightly decreased when she realized that she was face-to-face with Sylar, and not a ghost of a stranger. _'No, a serial killer is much better,_' she thought, ignoring the way his lip twitched, as though he were amused by her thoughts. She felt her blood warm at the thought of him in her mind, anger chasing away any remnants of surprise or fear.

"May I?" He asked, reaching a hand out for the watch. Claire watched him carefully as she set it in his palm, her eyes narrowed as he placed it against his ear, listening. A few moments later he turned it over, pulling back the cover and adjusting it until, she assumed, it ran correctly.

Again she thought of Peter. He had mentioned something of Sylar's previous occupation as a watchmaker; another something he had either known or learned in the time they spent together, trapped inside the killer's mind. Peter had also told her that he no longer liked to be called Sylar; he preferred Gabriel Gray, his original name, but she didn't care. He would always be Sylar to her.

She watched as he set it down, her back stiffening slightly as he looked at her once more. "I can control water," he said, stated so simply that she blinked in surprise. "I pulled some from the pumps outside. There's a bathroom down the hall, if you'd like to shower." She narrowed her eyes once more, her lips pressed together tightly. He shrugged, looking down at the trunk by his feet before turning his gaze back to her.

"I found some old clothes downstairs in a closet," he said simply. "There might be something to fit you. I'm going to take a shower."

He didn't ask if she was leaving, if she would be there when he got back, and she felt herself relax only once the door closed behind him. She could hear the storm picking up once more outside, and cursed softly under her breath as she sank down onto the tattered mattress, listening to the bed frame creak beneath her weight. Even if there was no snow falling, the fact still remained that she had to figure out where she was before she could figure out where to go. A bath couldn't hurt, either. And some new clothes. She had to look more presentable, more normal, if she didn't want to attract any attention. And attention was exactly what she didn't want now, not so soon after fighting her way out of a hell that she had spent over a year in.

It was with these thoughts that she forced herself to stay on the bed, listening to the faint ticking of the watch by her hand. She drifted downstairs, rummaging through the closet until she found an old and faded pair of jeans that were only slightly too big and an oversized sweater that she would have to roll high up on her arms. She retreated back to the bedroom, where she remained until she heard Sylar exit the bathroom, his footsteps receding down the stairs. It was only then that she trudged towards the bathroom, struggling to focus on where she was headed rather than where she was now. One more night, and then she would never see him again, she told herself as she ran the water, refusing to think about who had provided it. One more night, and she would never have to see him again.

_**To be continued.**_

_**Note: **_Sorry this one was a bit short, or it felt like it. The next one may be from Sylar's POV. I may shift between them now, though I haven't decided yet. Thank you for reading!


	7. Regress

'_My name is Gabriel Gray.'_

Those were the words he had repeated over and over again in his mind for the past two years, whispering them aloud in the darkness until they lost any meaning they may have once held. He had refused to be broken by the hell he was put in; he would survive it, just as he had survived everything else: He would plan, and he would never hesitate to act.

It was for this reason that he had jumped on his chance to escape, even if it meant trudging through the snow for hours in nothing more than sweatpants and a jacket, following the tangled blonde hair of a cheerleader in a storm.

It was hard for him to break the habit of thinking her with that title: a simple and naïve little girl from Texas with daddy issues and a penchant for violence and vehement words. It had been strange, however, to be the one dependent on her for life, rather than the other way around. He was used to holding the power, whether it be over her or anyone else. He was the one they feared, the one they deferred to and trembled in front of, waiting for his verdict. He was the one who held their lives in his hands.

'_Was,'_ he reminded himself sternly. _'That's not who I am anymore.'_

The hunger, as he had called it, had never been quelled completely. There were moments, much like a recovering addict, he assumed, where the urge would take him over, blocking out any other coherent thought until he or someone else managed to break the spell. For the few months before he was captured, that person had been Peter. However reluctant Gabriel had been to keep in such close contact with him, Peter had pulled him from the confines of his own mind before. Gabriel refused to use a crutch, however; he didn't need one. Still, he didn't want to shun the only person who had seen him at his worst and somehow still forgave him, even for the murder of his own brother.

Gabriel glanced up from his spot in front of the fire as the cheerleader—Claire, he reminded himself once more—walked down the stairs, her hair dripping and new clothing hanging ridiculously off her thin frame. He stirred the fire once more with the poker, urging the embers to take to flame, before setting it down and falling back on his heels, holding his hands out for the warmth. Though he had been able to coax water from the pipes, he had no means of heating it, and was still shivering slightly as his body recovered from the chill.

He nodded towards the fire, though was unsurprised when she turned away, heading into the kitchen where he heard her rummage through the cupboards, cursing when she came to the same conclusion that he had.

"Empty," he said, and quieted as a snippet of thought stole into his mind, fragmented and distorted.

_ '….so hungry. Can't remember the last time I had a decent meal.'_

"We can head down the road tomorrow, try to find some sort of service station," He said, the words escaping his lips before he could think to quiet himself. He waited for some sort of reaction, poisonous words, but she was silent. He stretched his fingers closer to the flames, feeling the warmth spread throughout his body, listening to her open and close cupboards for a few more minutes before giving up and walking back into the living room, hesitantly sitting on the threadbare couch behind him.

_ '…so easy to kill him.'_

Gabriel felt a frown tug on his lips, but he didn't move from his spot, keeping his back to her. He had lost control of quite a few of his abilities since he'd been taken prisoner. Not only had they managed to take several away from him, they had somehow messed with the others; or perhaps he was simply out of practice, off balance from losing so much of himself.

_'They don't define me,_' he reminded himself, but the words echoed hollowly in his mind as he stood up, stretching his arms high above his head as he searched for a place to sit, finding only the other end of the couch. He settled himself down as comfortably as he could, ignoring the way Claire scooted farther to the left, as far from him as she could get.

"Well, this is cozy, isn't it," He said, and couldn't help but be somewhat amused by the way she clenched her hands into fists, as though she could fend him off with only her bare hands, as though he would attack her as soon as she turned her back.

He didn't think he'd fared as badly as her, at least not physically. She was gaunt and pale, and though her body regenerated itself, she still looked as though she hadn't eaten in weeks. Her hair was thin and flat, her skin nearly translucent. He knew he himself had lost a significant amount of muscle mass, though that could be regained. He too was pale, though it was harder to judge himself. He wondered how she could possibly be afraid of someone who looked as pathetic as must have at the moment.

What, exactly, had they done to her, he wondered? He'd lost the ability to heal not long after his arrival; they already had a test subject, they said, and would like to consider some of his other abilities. He remembered how many times he'd managed to get free of his bonds, only to be dragged back time and time again. It was then that they began to minimalize his abilities, stripping him down to only a few that he couldn't use to do harm to others. There were a few he'd managed to hold onto despite their misgivings, although eventually he'd learned to simply sit back and wait, bide his time, attempt to reacquire abilities from others in the building. It was infuriating, but what were a few years in the view of eternity?

He'd retained the ability to see the history of anything he touched. He knew, for example, that the watch upstairs had belonged to the previous owner's husband before he passed away from cancer, that she had worn it herself until the day she died and was buried by her granddaughter, who left it and most of the house intact to collect dust. He'd learned a lot over the course of the years, both intentionally and unintentionally. He'd learned to control which memories he absorbed, for the most part. Still, the curiosity, the desire to know how things worked, remained, even if the hunger had abated.

He didn't realize he'd been staring until Claire cleared her throat, her eyes narrowed into slits as she pushed herself further back into the couch, watching him. He felt a small stab of annoyance but quickly pushed it away, looking towards the fire as the silence settled down like a heavy weight.

"I'll sleep upstairs," She said, the only words she'd spoken in hours of silence. He nodded, turning his eyes back to the fire, wondering if the image he saw of himself burning in flames was his own or hers.

"How long were you there?" He asked, the curiosity working faster than his tongue could hold itself. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes, saw the way she shrugged her shoulders slightly.

"Don't know," She said flatly, watching the flames and refusing to look in his direction. "A few years, maybe. I lost track."

He nodded, following her gaze. "Two years, three months, and seven days," He said, almost mechanically, noting with some amusement the surprise on her features as he returned his gaze to her. "That's how many nights I spent there. The ones I was able to count, that is."

He watched the way her hands curled slowly into fists, though she kept them in her lap, struggling to stem the tremble that was spreading up her arms. Anger or fear, he wondered? Was she thinking of what they'd done to her? He didn't realize he was stretching out his hand until it touched her own, and then he saw.

Amputations, mutilation, flaying. Burns from both flames and chemicals. Gunshots, knife wounds, smashed bones, skinning. He heard screams, saw bright blue eyes and laughter, a man pushing her against a wall and touching her in a way that was obviously not reciprocated, glass slicing through skin and arteries and veins, blood pulsating onto the ground and soaking her dress.

He imagined he could feel the pain, and it wasn't until he heard a gasp and pulled himself away that he realized he _was_ feeling pain, though it wasn't hers. She held the fire poker in her hand, the tip red hot from the embers where she'd grabbed it from, and was pressing it to his hand until he released her, falling back with a gasp as he gripped his seared flesh.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" She screamed, standing up and keeping the poker pointed at him as she stepped back. He grimaced, feeling a bright surge of anger that was both alien and comfortably familiar as she glared at him. He bit back a retort, only allowing a small groan to escape his lips as the stench of his own burned flesh reached his nostrils. He needed her ability; he could take it. The idiots hadn't taken all of his abilities; they couldn't find them all. He could still cut her open, find what was inside, take what had been rightfully his before it had been stolen. He would; she thought she could just burn him, humiliate and maim him like some sort of animal?

He didn't realize what he was doing until he heard the 'thud' as she hit the wall. His hand was outstretched, his fingers wrapped tightly around her throat though he stood several feet away. He felt the finger on his right hand twitch, a muscle memory prompting him to action. A simple slice and she would fall; he could take what he needed and leave her here. Was that not the only reason he hadn't left her behind before? He needed her gift, her ability. He didn't have time to wait for her to hand it over willingly. Her hatred was far too strong, she was far too headstrong to ever allow him the opportunity. Her arrogance and superiority were still intact, he noted distantly. She'd always believed herself to be better than him, despite the fact that she could have turned out exactly the same. It was only circumstances beyond their control that had allotted her the doting, albeit manipulative, father, rather than the overbearing and condescending mother. It was only fate's cruel joke that she had had everything he ever wanted and threw it all away as though it were worth nothing.

He heard her scream, and his hand let go.

She fell to the ground, the small cut on her forehead quickly healing as she pulled herself to her feet, taking a small step backward, away from him. He saw the poker lying abandoned on the ground, felt the pain in his hand once more as it brought him back to reality. The anger he felt dulled, becoming only a distant memory in the back of his mind as he realized what he'd done. He was no longer that person. He wasn't, and yet he'd just proved himself wrong in every possible way.

"Claire," he began, but she cut him off before he could continue.

"I knew you could never change," She said quietly. He was expecting venomous words, anger, fury; and yet somehow, those words hit him harder than anything else could have. She seemed to know this, and watched him for a moment longer before picking up the poker and heading up the stairs, leaving him alone with the mess he had created, once more.

_**To be continued.**_

**Note:** Sorry it took so long to update. I was busy with school, but I graduated on Friday, so no more homework! Thank you all so much for your reviews and support. Please let me know if you like this point of view or if I should never attempt it again.


	8. Confrontation

Sleep didn't come easily that night. Gabriel spent most of the long hours tossing and turning on the spring-loaded sofa, occasionally pacing in front of the windows and watching the light snowfall that continued outside. It seemed to take days for the sun to begin to rise; he paused in his stride, watching the light reflect off the fresh coat of snow on the ground as it chased away the chill.

He'd been visited many times throughout the night. Some of the faces he didn't even recognize, though they all bore his mark, the thin line of blood on their foreheads his signature. There were more than he had ever realized; young, old, male, female. It didn't matter. They all came to him, and with every face, every pair of accusing and cold eyes, he knew that the redemption he'd caught a glimpse of with Peter throughout the years they spent together was far out of his reach, no matter how much he would have liked to believe otherwise. In his mind, it had been nearly a decade since his last kill. To the rest of the world, it had merely been two.

He thought of the guards lying in crimson pools in the snow, somewhere in the middle of the woods, and felt his stomach twist. Only a day, then. But he had been protecting himself, and Claire, not selfishly vying for powers…

He looked up when he heard footsteps on the stairs, somewhat surprised to see Claire. He'd thought she would leave during the night, yet she was standing there, her back straight and eyes narrowed, as though daring him to attempt the same thing he had last night. He stood up from his spot on the windowsill, stifling a yawn as he glanced around the nearly empty living room.

"Shall we?" He asked, ignoring the way she rolled her eyes as she passed him, stepping outside and into the snow. It had stopped falling, but he could still feel the cold through the shirt he wore as he followed her, closing the door securely behind him, pushing away the memory of the granddaughter doing the same thing decades ago.

The road still wasn't plowed, confirming his earlier assumption that this was a rarely traveled road. It simply meant farther to walk, though he was glad for the warmer clothes he'd found, even if they didn't fit very well. He wouldn't need to rely on the cheerleader's help anymore, and he doubted she'd give it to him. He was unsure why she hadn't left him behind yet, and felt curiosity pushing its way to the forefront of his mind. Not the hunger, but the beginning pangs of it.

There were no more homes on the road as it began to twist and wind. He shoved his hands into the pockets of the jacket he'd picked up, easily matching Claire's stride with his longer legs. He allowed her to lead, however, watching the way her shoulders stiffened whenever he got too close, unable to quell the small pinpricks of amusement he felt tugging at his lips. The sun rose higher as they walked, and soon the chill diminished, allowing him to remove the jacket and tuck it over his arm as they went, the road stretching farther and farther towards nothing.

The silence was tiring. He'd never minded it before; he'd even embraced it at times, comfortable to wrap himself in its certainties. This silence, however, had something underlying it. Hatred, tension; it was almost palpable, and it put him more on edge than anything else.

He found himself remembering the way he'd felt when her face had appeared on his arm at the carnival, the initial shock and resulting anger as he presented to her the reasons she should help him, though with what he had been unsure. She was so incredibly stubborn, so infuriating in her denial of the things they shared; they truly were two sides of the same coin. It was simply God's flip that gave them differing circumstances, though even those shared similarities.

She'd told him that to regain his humanity, he'd have to lose his abilities. He had done just that, though they had resurfaced after his time with Peter. He wondered distantly if she'd find it ironic that they had been stripped away by force this time.

He did feel more human, however. The hunger had abated, even though he'd held onto his original ability and all that it entailed. Without so much to fuel it, it was easier to ignore the urges. He'd often wondered if he'd be better off without it, but it was the only thing he held that was truly his: the desire to understand, to empathize, and to gain abilities. The curiosity was his and his alone, and he didn't want to lose that if he didn't have to.

Though perhaps he did; he'd nearly sliced open Claire's head once more, and for what? Her ability? He'd already taken it once; it was his fault he'd lost it, though perhaps that was exactly what he deserved.

He was pulled from his musings as they approached a small building, which he quickly identified as a gas station as they came closer. It was set off on its own in the middle of nowhere, though there was a single car next to a gas pump, a man at the counter inside paying. He followed close behind Claire as she stepped inside, glancing around at the food with obvious and unmasked hunger. He stepped over to the counter as the customer left, the bell above the door ringing obnoxiously loud in his ears, an ability he still retained, and tapped on the counter.

"Excuse me," he said, ignoring the way the man narrowed his eyes slightly. "We got a little lost. Could you tell us where we are?"

"Buy a map, buddy," was all he said, pointing at the small pile next to the counter. Gabriel glanced at them, though all he was able to see was that they were in Pennsylvania. It was a start, at least. He had just taken the map from the small stack when he heard a 'thud'. He glanced back at where Claire stood, having just knocked over a small display of energy drinks. He followed her gaze towards the small television mounted on the wall behind the counter, ignoring the way the man behind the counter demanded they pay for the dented cans, and felt his stomach drop.

The volume was muffled, but it was easy for him to hear. The screen showed senators from around the U.S. meeting with the president. They were discussing a current rise in the criminal activity, mostly from 'specials.' A tsunami was traced back to an individual with these abilities, as were many other natural disasters. Gabriel doubted the authenticity of many of them, but somehow was unsurprised that the government would put a face onto something random and accidental. Rally the people. Create a common enemy.

"Mr. President, what are your thoughts on the recent riot at the correctional facility in Pennsylvania?"

He heard Claire as she stepped closer to the screen, straining to hear.

"So far, several individuals are unaccounted for. We as a country mourn the loss of those who dedicated their lives to helping and protecting these individuals, only to have them cruelly ripped away by those they were trying to help. We're asking the public to help us find these individuals, to punish those responsible and help those who were caught up in the chaos. They are no doubt scared, lost, and helpless. We only wish to help."

Gabriel tore his eyes from the screen, his hands clenching into tight fists at his sides. Every word was a lie. He wasn't surprised, but the anger he felt coursing through his veins was stronger than any he'd felt in years. How dare they make imprisonment look voluntary? The things they'd done to specials in the name of reformation and charity would make most people cringe; and this was their idea of _helping_? Murder, torture, and abuse?

He was only pulled back to the present as the cashier began to yell, reaching behind him for the phone. His eyes darted to the screen, at the pictures displayed of healthier versions of himself, Claire, and many others he'd never seen before, and turned his gaze back to the cashier.

He didn't want to use his abilities any longer. They awakened the hunger, made it harder to control himself, but he had no choice. With a simple flick of his wrist he tore the phone plug from the wall, disconnected the TV, and sent the cashier back into the wall, where he held him casually with one hand while he walked to the other side of the counter and opened the register with the other. He didn't take much; a handful of twenties, at most. He nodded at Claire as she reluctantly picked up a few bags of chips, jerky, and bottles of water before stepping back, releasing the man and watching him as he slid to his knees, gasping for air that he had unintentionally stolen.

"For the food," He said, placing one of the twenties on the counter before turning and walking out the door behind Claire, the door swinging closed behind him with a small jingle of the bell.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

It wasn't until they reached the relative safety of a motel many miles away from the gas station that Claire finally broke the silence.

Gabriel pulled the car into a parking spot, turning off the engine and sliding the keys into his pocket. It was well past nightfall; they'd been driving for over twelve hours since the fiasco at the gas station. It hadn't been hard to pull the keys from the cashier and take his car from its spot behind the building, nor had it been difficult to take a map and trace their way southwest, as far from the hospital as they could get. They were still in Pennsylvania, but it wouldn't take long to leave the state behind. Where to go from there, he wasn't sure.

They'd only had to stop a few times to refill on gas, and each time Claire drilled him with a cold stare until he paid the cashier. There were no signs that they were looking for the man's stolen car, though perhaps it just hadn't reached this far yet. He kept to back roads as often as possible, careful to follow the rules of the road and avoid being pulled over and recognized. It took longer, but they couldn't risk being found out.

He wasn't sure when they had become a joined entity, rather than 'I' and 'she'. He still needed her ability, if he was going to live in any kind of obscurity or safety in what the world appeared to have become. He hadn't seen much of it yet, but already he was on edge.

He wasn't expecting to hear her voice. After nothing but silence for half a day, he had grown quite used to it, despite the tension and unspoken words underlying it. So it was when she did speak he jumped, turning to her just as he reached to open the door, his hand hanging off the handle.

"We're fugitives."

He frowned, letting his hand fall back to his side as he watched her. She hadn't slept at all, as though as soon as she closed her eyes he would drop her on the roadside or kill her. She looked exhausted, her eyes drawn in dark circles and cheekbones more prominent than he remembered, despite the fact that she had eaten more in the past twelve hours than she probably had in months.

"Yes," he agreed, watching as she turned her hollowed eyes to his own. "They hunt what they fear."

"No," she said, shaking her head and tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "We broke the law. Before they just wanted us because we were different. Now they want us because we're thieves. Thanks to you."

He felt annoyance and anger bubbling to the surface of his being, but he quickly pushed it back, choosing instead to use logic. "Claire, if I hadn't stopped him, he would have called the police. They would have taken us back to that hellhole we just got out of. Would you have rather I let him?"

He heard the accusation in his own voice, though he let it sit rather than taking it back. He had had no other choice. They would have starved if he hadn't taken the money or the food. They would have never made it to the city if he hadn't taken the car; the man would have called the police some other way and they would have been picked up quickly. They would have been captured if he hadn't done what he did, and still she acted as though he had done something terrible.

"You didn't have to hurt him," She said, and her voice raised slightly in volume as she continued. "You didn't have to make me complicit in your crimes. Why are you even still here? I only let you come along because I needed a way to the city, but we found one. I know where I am, and I will find a phone and go home. Go away, Sylar. Go find more innocent people to kill, more powers to steal. Just keep me out of it. I don't want to see you."

She reached for the door handle, but Gabriel quickly locked the doors, holding them in place with his power as she struggled to free herself. She spun towards him, glaring daggers in his direction as he held her in this small space, with him.

He struggled to maintain his composure, but the anger was bubbling over. He didn't care anymore. Better to speak rather than allow his powers to do it for him.

"You're a child," He said, his voice low and husky. He narrowed his eyes at her, holding her in place as she continued to pull on the door handle, eventually even pounding on the window and screaming for help from people who weren't even there. "See? Temper tantrum, even now. After everything that's happened, I almost expected you to have matured a bit more. But you're still the arrogant, self-righteous and condescending daddy's girl I met before, aren't you?" He demanded. She refused to look in his direction until he turned her head with a slight flick of his fingers, though still she closed her eyes.

"I spent eight years searching for forgiveness, Claire. I found it from Peter, and that was more than I could ever expected or hoped for. But I spent three years alone. There was no one with me, no one to hear me scream, or cry, or beg for answers to so many questions. I want you to try and imagine that. Try and imagine yourself trapped in an empty world without going completely mad. No father, no mother, no friends; just you and your thoughts, and time to examine every single damn piece of yourself that you hate." He waited, though she was still silent. Her eyes had opened and she was glaring at him, though still she closed herself off. He didn't need to touch her again to understand that.

"I know you hate me," He said. "And I would expect nothing less of you. You know that we're similar, don't you, Claire. And that's what scares you. You can't stop hating me because that means you'll have to stop hating yourself, and you don't think you can do that. You want to punish yourself because you think you're responsible for all those people trapped like we were, don't you?" He paused, refusing to allow himself to touch her, to find out if any of what he said held any truth. He wouldn't violate her in that way again.

"You hate me because it's easy, because it's _comfortable. _Because seeing me in any other light would be betraying those you loved that I killed, would be questioning the very rocky moral ground you stand on. You don't want to admit that we're alike, that anything about us could possibly coincide. You saw it at one point, when you were still in college. You saw my humanity then, didn't you, Claire?" He looked at her, waited, but still she was silent, her lips pressed tightly together and eyes narrowed. "You wanted to help me find it, if only to help yourself. And I _did_ find it, thanks to you. For that moment, that single moment in the supply closet, I thought you had finally let go of some of that hatred. Perhaps I was wrong. It doesn't matter. What matters is that you see me _now_. I am not Sylar anymore. I'm Gabriel Gray. I'm _human_, and that will be the truth whether you want to accept it or not."

He felt his chest heaving, his breath coming quickly in the small quarters they were in. He could feel some of his anger abating, a cold resignation taking its place as he looked at the young woman in front of him, so passionate and emotional and damnably stubborn. He let her go, his hand falling back to his side, though still she remained in place, her eyes boring into his own.

"You will always be Sylar," she said quietly, and he heard himself laugh, frustrated and tired and giving up.

"Yes, I suppose I will be," he conceded, letting his head fall back against the seat behind him. He turned his gaze towards her once more, meeting her eyes and holding them there. "But I'm also Gabriel. The fact that I didn't kill that clerk or anyone at the hospital should attest to that, even just a little bit."

She was silent, and he barely heard the sound of the car door slamming shut behind her as she walked towards the motel, her head held high and back straight. He closed his eyes, the small wad of bills in the dashboard slightly diminished as she paid for her own room and left him behind. He didn't move for what felt like hours, struggling to clear his mind, searching for logic in the midst of chaos.

She wasn't a child, not all the way. She had changed in ways he knew he didn't quite understand, though he was sure he would understand more than she thought he could. They both felt responsible for the deaths of many, though only he had actually held the blade, in most cases. It was a guilt that ate away at you, that you wanted to push off onto others with bursts of anger and blame. Yes, he did understand. But in the end, perhaps it didn't even matter.

He locked the car doors behind himself as he walked into the motel, paying for his room in silence and heading down the hall. He heard a loud 'crash' in the room next to the one he entered, and knew that she had stayed in the building. Somehow he was still able to find amusement in this fact, even as he kicked off his shoes and climbed under the questionable covers of the bed, listening to the chirping of crickets and soft roll of tires miles away outside his window.

He was human. He retained some abilities, but he had regained his humanity. It may have been tarnished, but it remained.

_'I'm Gabriel Gray,'_ he thought distantly, listening to the muffled screams from the next room. _'I'm Gabriel Gray, and I am human.'_

_**To be continued.**_

_**Note:**_ I cannot stop listening to "Just a Little Girl" by Trading Yesterday when I write/think about the way Gabriel/Sylar must feel about Claire when she acts like this. It's just so perfect. Anyways, I went ahead and did another chapter from his view. Let me know what you think. I'll try to update soon. Thank you again for reading!


	9. Distance

Claire woke the next morning to the sound of knocking on her door.

She sat up slowly, her vision blurry from sleep as she glanced around at her surroundings, struggling to place where she was. In a moment the previous night came rushing back, and she felt blood rush to her cheeks, though whether it was from shame or anger, she was unsure.

She pushed away the sheet that covered her, struggling to disentangle herself from when she had tossed and turned throughout the night. She hadn't slept well; her mind had been so muddled the previous night that she'd simply collapsed onto the bed, too exhausted for tears of frustration or anger. All she could muster were screams that she muffled into her pillow, hating every turn her life had taken.

She quickly pulled on the sweater she'd worn before, pulling her hair from its grasp before looking through the peephole in the cracked door, already knowing whose face she'd find on the other side.

She stepped back and pulled open the door, crossing her arms over her chest as she met his gaze.

"Good morning," he said simply, and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. He was silent, glancing over her shoulder for a moment before looking back at her. "I think we should leave soon. If we want to put more distance between us and-"

"We?" She interrupted, unable to bite her tongue. She watched as his eyes snapped back to her own from where they'd wandered, the way his eyebrows raised slightly, as though waiting for an explanation. She felt a frown tugging on her lips as she spoke.

"I'm not going with you, Sylar," she said, unable to quell the small amount of satisfaction she felt when he flinched back from the name she used. "I know where I am. I can find my own way now. I'm not going another mile with you."

It was true; she could call home, find her own way out. She no longer needed him, and hated the fact that she ever had. Her blood froze at the thought of a phone call; why hadn't she done that the night before? She could have heard their voices, found some reassurance at their safety. She thought again of her father lying prone on the living room floor, blood soaking the carpet beneath him as he paled, her mother and brother standing by helplessly…

She didn't realize Sylar had spoken until he reached out a hand and placed it gently on her shoulder. Her reaction was visceral; she knocked his hand away, stepping back and nearly tripping on the threadbare carpet beneath her feet, her entire body tense. She felt her stomach coil at the strange look in his eyes, something akin to remorse; she quickly shook the thought off as insane.

"Claire," he was saying, and she bit her tongue. "I'm going to California as well. Peter's there, and I need to talk to him. He's probably already working on a way to fight back, and I want to help." He paused, and she suspected there were other reasons he wished to see her uncle; their twisted and misguided friendship, for example. "I know your family lives there. So either you can go ahead on your own and have me follow you, or we can go together. It would be safer if we stick together; the government has enough resources at their disposal to make tracking us very, very easy. You know as well as I do that we'd stand a better chance together."

She hated the fact that she even considered his words. Despite their logic, she still felt her skin crawl with the thought of spending another minute in his presence, much less the days and days it would take to drive to California. She knew she couldn't take a plane; she had no money, and it would be far too easy to identify her. Besides, she had no identification, not even a fake I.D. She thought for a moment if it would be possible to simply take the car and leave him behind, but shook off the idea when she saw him stiffen slightly.

_ 'Get the hell out of my mind,'_ she thought, anger warming her blood. When he looked away again she sighed, pushing back bile as she nodded.

"Fine," she said stiffly, hating the way he nodded as though he'd expected this response, as though he knew her at all. "I'm going to get my stuff together. Then we can go."

She saw the way his eyebrows raised at her words, as though she had anything to gather, though he didn't protest as she shut the door in his face, sliding the deadbolt securely into place.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

Claire could feel her hands shaking as she lifted the phone from its receiver, the dial tone on the other end both familiar and strangely alien. She had to hang up more than once as she misdialed, either too nervous or having to take a moment to remember her own phone number. When she finally managed to enter all the digits correctly she placed the cool plastic against her ear, closing her eyes tightly as she waited through the rings.

No one answered.

She hung up quickly, not even waiting for the answering machine to beep. Her chest felt empty somehow, disappointment hanging heavy over her head. She didn't realize just how much she'd wanted to hear a familiar voice at the other end until all she heard was silence.

She tried once more, though she received the same result. She quickly set down the phone and walked over to the bed, surprised to find tears fighting their way to her eyes. She pressed the back of her hand against them, willing them to disperse; she wouldn't cry, not now. Not with Sylar in the next room.

She sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, running her fingers through her hair in silence. She found herself replaying, not for the first time, the words he had spoken to her the night before in the car. She felt nauseous all over again at the way it felt to be trapped and helpless, held in place by things she couldn't see and forced to listen to the ramblings of a madman.

Except they weren't, were they? Nearly every single word out of his damn mouth had been true, in some way. He hadn't touched her, not the way he had back when she was in college, reading her and feeling her, the way her mind worked and the things that she felt. She'd known then that he was rummaging around inside of her, just as she had two nights ago when he read her memories. That was different, however. They were both violations, but she could somehow tell what he was searching for, and the exact moment when he found it. And yet somehow he knew her well enough to pinpoint every fear, every ounce of hatred, and point directly at their cause. Somehow he knew her that well without his ability, and it was that thought that scared her the most.

She shook her head, pulling herself to her feet and slipping on the jacket she'd attained back at the farmhouse. It didn't matter what he said, if he thought he understood her or not. She knew that he hadn't changed, even if he had deluded himself and Peter into thinking that he had. He'd proved himself to be exactly who she knew he was two nights ago when he tried to slice into her head again; he'd proved it when he held her in place the night before. It was only a matter of time until he did something truly irreversible, something to prove to himself what she already knew to be true: that he was a monster, and always would be; and she wanted to see the look on his face when he did.

She wasn't surprised to see him leaning against the wall in the hallway when she walked out, as though he'd stood there waiting. She didn't look at him as he lead the way to the front desk, handing his room key to the front desk, waiting as she did the same before heading to the car with her close behind.

Peter could have him back when they arrived in California. Her uncle had moved there shortly after Claire's jump from the Ferris wheel, wanting to be closer to her father in order to plan their next moves carefully. She hadn't seen Sylar, though she knew that he was near; sometimes Peter would mention his name as he spoke to her father and they thought she wasn't listening, passing on his advice and suggestions. It had made her sick to think of that monster in the same room as her uncle for even a moment, after what he'd done to Nathan. She was sure that he'd somehow tricked Peter, though she also knew her uncle to be a reliable and trustworthy person. She never would have expected him to be fooled by a façade, especially from his brother's murderer.

She shook off her thoughts, unwilling to deal with the ache that Peter's face brought to her chest. Instead she turned her head to look out the window, feeling Sylar's eyes on the back of her head as he pulled out of the parking lot and headed back onto the open and abandoned road.

"You do know that I don't have to let you come with. Or even follow me," she said, slightly surprised that she had broken the silence between them. "I could just as easily kill you and leave you here to rot. I don't need your help."

She saw his face in the reflection of the window, the way he inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her words.

"But that sounds like something I would have done," he said, his use of the past tense irrationally infuriating her. "And we both know that you're nothing like what I used to be."

"What you are," she snapped, turning back to look at him. "Who you are. Now."

It was impossible to miss the way his lips pursed, something akin to a scowl or a smirk coming over his face for a moment. In the end, however, he simply nodded.

"What I said last night is still the truth," He said softly, and she tore her eyes away, feeling her hands clench into fists in her lap. She had almost forgotten what it felt like to feel this much anger, this much frustration and hatred. She'd been dulled during her two years of captivity, but she was finally feeling life flood her veins once more. It didn't matter to her that it was fury keeping her moving; at least she was moving. She only hoped that at the end of her path, she would find Sylar's dead body at her feet.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

The next few hours passed slowly. Claire tried to make the time pass faster by turning on the radio, though somehow every song reminded her of a face she hadn't seen in years, someone dead or alive, and eventually she turned it off, settling for the silence instead. Sylar didn't speak at all, only occasionally glancing in her direction, though he quickly looked away. She watched as the scenery outside the window slowly began to fill in as they left the countryside behind and began to enter towns and cities. She kept the map clutched tightly in her hands, taking it upon herself to navigate them as they went, something to keep her mind off of who was sitting not even two feet away from her.

She would find herself relaxing occasionally, exhaustion taking over as her eyes began to slip closed. Each time, however, something would alert her, remind her where she was and in whose presence, and she would sit up quickly, her heart pounding and ears ringing, any desire for sleep erased. On a few of these occasions she felt Sylar's eyes on her, though she refused to look back. Eventually, however, he sighed, as though frustrated, and she bristled.

"Claire, I'm not going to eat you," He said, as though the whole thing were a joke. "You can sleep. You're not going to wake up underground or anything. I promise."

She clutched the map tighter in her hands, tearing her eyes away from the heavy traffic flow outside and looking over at him. He was frowning, though something about his gaze told her that he was trying to lighten the mood.

"Your promises mean nothing to me," she said through gritted teeth, turning back to the road when someone behind them honked, waiting until he began to drive again to allow her muscles to relax.

Eventually she offered to drive, though not for his benefit. She needed to do something to keep from falling asleep, and though he insisted he hold the map she refused to relinquish it, propping it up on the dashboard as they went, not trusting any direction he may have given. She found herself falling into a routine, the roads blurring slightly as she went. It wasn't until several hours had passed, the sun setting slowly, that she realized Sylar had fallen asleep.

They had been on a freeway for an hour, and she glanced at the map, merging off and onto an older and abandoned road, the dark having chased most inside. His head was resting against the window, propped up by one hand. She found herself gripping the wheel tightly as she glanced over at him, wondering how he could sleep, how he could look so peaceful after all that he had done. She wanted nightmares to consume him, to eat him away from the inside out until he ended his own life. She'd had her own fair share of night terrors because of him, had lost many nights of sleep over his face and the damage and hurt he had caused her personally. Every bump or whisper became a monster lurking over her bed, his fingers probing inside her head, touching the most intimate parts of her mind until she screamed.

She didn't realize her hands had begun to shake until she tried to steady them on the wheel, tearing her eyes away from Sylar as she picked up her speed, wondering how fast she would have to brake to make him fly through the windshield and smear on the pavement. She thought of Brody, the way it had felt to see his broken and battered body lying in a hospital bed because of what she had done, because of what he had done to her. She'd felt guilt over it, but the satisfaction of knowing that he could never hurt her again was intoxicating. What would it feel like, she wondered, to never have to worry about Sylar coming back? She had a chance now. He wouldn't wake until it was too late; his last thoughts would be of how much it hurt, his last sight the pavement rising to meet him. There was no question in her mind that he deserved to die. She'd believed it for so long, and now she finally had the opportunity; he was without her power, and he would never have the opportunity to regain it if he died now.

She bit her lip hard, drawing blood whose copper tang drew her from the fog her mind had entered. She quickly righted her position on the road, glancing over at Sylar's prone form once more. He no longer looked peaceful; his eyes more moving quickly beneath their lids, a small moan escaping his lips as he shifted his position, as though fending off an invisible force. She was unable to quell the satisfaction she felt upon seeing him so helpless and fragile, a human body that could die just like everyone else.

Human. Her heart sank in her chest as she realized that physically, in this moment, he was more human than she. The thought made her sick, and she tore her eyes away once more, staring heavily at the long road stretching in front of her. It was pitch black now, the road lit only at intervals by streetlamps that provided only a passing glimpse of their surroundings. She closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself to let go of the wheel, to allow him to finally die the death he deserved. But then he groaned once more, almost as though he were frightened, and she corrected their path.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

He took over driving once more in the morning. He apologized for letting her drive for so long, but Claire had simply shrugged. It had kept her mind off of everything else.

They were making real progress. He suggested that she take a turn to rest, and that they stop at a motel again that night. She agreed, but only because she didn't have the energy to argue with him. Still, though, she couldn't let herself relax. Though her entire body ached with exhaustion, her mind refused to allow her rest in the presence of something as dangerous as Sylar. When he stopped for gas around midday, he suggested she lay down in the backseat where it was more comfortable. She couldn't imagine allowing herself to sleep in his company, but agreed to move, if only to avoid seeing his face out of the corner of her eyes every moment.

She balled up her jacket as a pillow, and as soon as she lay down her head she was lost to sleep. She didn't dream; when she woke once more she thought she'd simply drifted off for a moment, though as she slowly sat up, rubbing her eyes and struggling to place her surroundings, she realized that it was already dark outside.

Something slid from her shoulders and fell onto the carpeted floor beneath her feet. She knelt and picked it up slowly, her mind and body still foggy with sleep. She looked down at the jacket in her hand, turning to set it back on the seat when she realized that hers was still there. Her mind finally caught up, and she realized with a start that Sylar had covered her with his jacket sometime during her rest. The thought made her shiver.

"Good morning," He said, and she nearly jumped, her eyes snapping quickly to meet his own in the rearview mirror. "Or, goodnight," He said, glancing outside.

"Where are we?" She asked, clearing her throat as she spoke, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand.

"Illinois," he said, glancing at the map. "About halfway through it. There was a sign half a mile back that said there's a motel up here. I was just going to wake you."

She glanced out the window at the storefronts they passed, the neon lights making her eyes sting. She quickly turned away, nodding as he merged and took a turn, soon pulling up in front of another nondescript motel. She stepped out of the car as soon as he stopped, unwilling to find herself trapped once more. She let out a long breath as soon as her feet struck the pavement, stretching her arms high above her head and closing her eyes as a quick chill passed over her body. She grabbed her jacket from the backseat, slipping it over her shoulders. She was about to shut the door when she saw his, sitting on the seat. She glanced over at where he stood, counting the money they had left, before grabbing it as well and slamming the door closed behind her.

"We have enough for two rooms," he said, and she bristled slightly at the remark. Even without the money, she would have rather slept in the car than anywhere near him and a bed. She nodded tightly, ignoring the strange look he gave her as she thrust his jacket out to him, carefully avoiding touching his fingers as he grasped it. She started to walk towards the front door without waiting for him, though she heard his heavy footsteps behind her. She shivered slightly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing how nervous he made her by glancing back. She opened the door quickly, stepping into the dingy motel lobby, the paint peeling and yellowed, the carpet threadbare and patchy. It was worse than the last one they'd stayed at, though she didn't care. She wouldn't have to see him until the morning; she didn't care about the surroundings.

She glanced at the clock as he paid for their rooms, taking the key from him when offered. It was nearly 11 p.m.; she'd slept for over twelve hours, and somehow she still felt exhausted. She walked past him and to the room she'd been given at the end of the hall, unsurprised to find that he had opted for the one next door. She ignored his 'goodnight', walking into her room and locking the door behind her, allowing herself to relax only once she made sure it was secure.

The first thing she did was call home. She closed her eyes as the phone rang again and again, each time reverting to the click of the answering machine. She gave up after the fifth attempt and stepped into the bathroom, deciding she would try again after she had showered.

The water pressure was awful, and it took her nearly twenty minutes to wash all of the shampoo out of her hair. She closed her eyes as the water ran over her body, struggling to focus only on the here and now. She would get dressed, call home again, and then go to bed. It would take a few more days, but soon she would be able to go back to her life, or whatever was left of it. She would find her family, she would fight back against the people who had hurt her and so many like her. She would have a chance to be Claire again, though she was beginning to question who exactly she was.

She'd seen things in black and white for so long. There was good and evil, right and wrong; there was no in between. Sylar was evil. Peter was good. Her father had begun to muddle the lines, making her unsure if he was being selfless or selfish in his actions. Still, he had done everything he had to protect her. Sylar's motives had always been purely selfish, everything he did somehow for his own gain. All he cared about was obtaining more abilities, making himself more and more powerful. And yet he had saved Emma at the carnival; he hadn't taken her ability. And he hadn't taken hers again.

She shook her head quickly, her back sliding slowly down the tiled wall of the shower. She pulled her knees to her chest, resting her chin on top of them as the water ran down over her skin, slowly growing colder and colder. Sylar was blurring the lines again. Peter had claimed to have spent years with him, trapped inside his mind. His worst fear was being alone. He had told her so himself, back at college. He'd drawn up their similarities, shown her her own face inked onto his skin. Peter vouched that he had changed, that it wasn't Nathan inside him who was controlling him any longer. Claire had asked him that question many times; what if it was the remnants of her birth father driving his sudden 'change'? Peter had shook his head, saying that he'd wondered that himself, but that he knew his brother. Though Sylar occasionally brought up things that he'd never experienced himself, the desire to be 'good' had emerged long before. Back when he had worked with her father, saved her from a vortex…but he'd always relapsed. Desire wasn't enough; his actions had to match his words, and they never had.

Until now.

She leaned her head back against the tiled wall, a small groan escaping her lips. She hated herself for even considering any of this. Regardless of how Sylar saw himself now, it was just words; he just wanted to see himself as 'good', his self-righteous condescension urging him to be the center of attention once more. He had fooled himself and Peter, but he wouldn't fool her. Even if his desire was genuine, which she refused to believe, his past remained. He had still killed her parents, tortured her, and destroyed a countless number of lives as he served himself. He was still Sylar, even if he continued to refer to himself as Gabriel. He was a serial killer, not a watchmaker. He wouldn't change.

She felt no more resolved than she had when she entered the shower as she stepped out, wrapping a towel around her body and clearing the fog from the mirror with her hand. She met her own eyes in the reflection, wondering what she had looked like two years ago. She couldn't remember anymore. Surely she hadn't been this pale, this brittle. She ran her fingers through her thin hair, wishing she had a brush. In the end she gave up, walking back into the main room where she pulled on her clothes once more, glancing at the clock. It was nearly one in the morning, and she felt a pang in her chest as she picked up the phone once more, the receiver cool as she cradled it in her hand. She dialed the same number again, but only more rings met her ears. She tried Peter's number as well, but got the same result. She could no longer remember Angela's number.

It was nearly two a.m. before she forced herself to put down the phone. She turned off the lights, slipping out of the uncomfortable jeans and sweater that she'd been wearing for days now. She slid under the covers, though her eyes didn't close for another hour. When they did, she fell asleep within moments, her mind running in circles until she exhausted herself.

She had slept for nearly two hours before he came into her room. She woke to his hand over her mouth, and her screams were lost.

_**To be continued.**_


	10. Run

Gabriel heard them from miles away.

There were many times that he had cursed this ability; oftentimes there were things he didn't want to hear, and others were simply too loud to ignore. He'd learned over the years how to turn it on and off, to dull or enhance sound, though sometimes he lost control; that had been happening more often than not since his 'visit' to the hospital in Pennsylvania. There were many times when he'd found himself using an ability that he had thought they'd taken or that had simply lain dormant. They had manifested themselves without his willing them during his stay until, eventually, he was put into an induced coma to prevent any more mishaps.

Now, however, he was glad for the inconvenience. He was laying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling and wondering what he would do once he did reach California, when he heard their voices. They started out indistinct, though as he focused in on them he sat up, immediately alert and awake.

_ "We traced the phone calls to this motel."_

He was unsure if he was hearing dialogue or thoughts as they continued, though it didn't matter. He was already on his feet, slipping the money and keys into his pockets as he pulled on his shirt and jacket, walking out of the room quickly and pulling the door closed behind him.

He knocked on Claire's door, but she didn't respond. He cursed under his breath as another snippet of dialogue came to his ears.

_ "They were driving a stolen vehicle. …President will be happy to have this mess under wraps…"_

With a flick of his finger he undid the lock on the other side of the door, willing himself to be silent as he approached the bed where Claire slept. He couldn't risk her waking and making a ruckus; they would be found out faster that way. He paused for a moment near the head of her bed, listening for the voices once more.

_ "….Here."_

He reached down and pressed his hand over her mouth, holding her easily in place until she recognized him. He cursed once more as she began to struggle harder, nearly kicking him in the process.

"Claire," He hissed, struggling to keep his voice low. "They found us. They're coming. You have to get up."

He slowly lifted his hand, ignoring the cold glare she gave him as he stepped back, pulling open the window that she had bolted shut, catching a glimpse of a car as it turned towards the parking lot. He cursed once more, no longer heeding the volume, and spun around quickly.

"Claire, we need to go,_ now_," He said, no longer thinking of her as the frightened deer. He didn't have time to coax her along. He would drag her along if he had to; they had no time left. He paused when his eyes fell on her form, sitting on the edge of the bed as she pulled her sweater over her head. He caught a glimpse of a strip of pale skin before she stood up, glaring at him as she caught his gaze. He simply gestured towards the window.

"Why the window?" She whispered, and he resisted the urge to make a snide remark.

"They're already here," He said simply. He could hear their footsteps in the parking lot, making their way to the door. The men were in no rush, but he knew that they had to be.

He pushed back a wave of annoyance as he realized that Claire was waiting for him to go first, unwilling to put her back to him. He slid out onto the fire escape, ducking down quickly as he attempted to free the rusting ladder from its spot; it obviously hadn't been used in years. No longer worried about noise, he kicked the top of the metal rungs until they released themselves, clattering downward until it came to a screeching halt. He heard the footsteps pick up their speed, already up the stairs and coming down the hallway. He glanced back into the room, only taking a moment to move the bed in front of the door, listening as they began to pound on the other side in an attempt to gain entrance.

_ "Go back the other way."_

Gabriel swore under his breath, placing one foot on a rung before slowly lowering himself down, listening as the rusted metal creaked beneath his weight. He half-expected one of them to snap, hurtling him downwards where he wouldn't heal from broken bones. He made it to the bottom, however, and had just stepped off when Claire hurried down, nearly slipping in the process. It only occurred to him then that he could have simply _flown_ down to the ground; his mind was so muddled that he was unsure which abilities he retained and how to access them.

He met Claire's eyes for a moment, nodding as she began to head in the direction of the car, her bare feet nearly silent on the pavement. He caught up to her in moments; they had to circle around to the car at the front of the building, and he heard the sound of the front door slamming open, two pairs of shoes pounding on the pavement, and a brief blast of a gunshot.

Claire had stopped moving; she stumbled back, losing her footing as another shot rang out. Gabriel watched as she fell, blood staining her shirt and trickling from the corner of her mouth as the two men he'd heard approached, now pointing their weapons in his direction.

He felt distant from himself as he threw one of them into the wall, barely moving his wrist to do so. Perhaps he wasn't as out of practice as he'd thought. The thought may have given him pause at any other time, but now it simply fueled his rage. He smirked slightly as the other man fired his gun, stopping the bullet as it moved towards him and sending it back, where it lodged in his bulletproof vest and sent him tumbling to the ground. Gabriel waited until the man had stumbled to his feet, regaining a trembling hold on his gun, before he tore it from his fingers, sending it towards himself where it landed at his feet. He stepped over it, smiling slightly at the fear he found on the other man's face as he took a step back. It only took a moment for Gabriel to reach him; he gripped him by the jacket, shoving him against the wall of the building and lifting him off his feet. Perhaps he hadn't lost as much muscle as he'd thought.

"Still glad you were sent on this little mission?" He leered, pressing his elbow into the other man's throat, listening to the sound of his struggling breath. "Hoping for a raise? A little thanks?" He lifted the other man by his throat, dropping him abruptly when he stopped struggling. He watched with jaded amusement as the other man gasped for air, struggling to find his footing when Gabriel kicked him down, again and again. A cat playing with the mouse, he thought with a smirk on his lips. He didn't feel guilty; this man deserved death. He was trying to bring it onto him, after all. He wanted to punish people like him simply for being different, for daring to want to live in the open like everyone else did. He pressed his boot down onto the other man's wrist, hearing clearly the exact moment the bone snapped, somewhat surprised that the officer remained utterly silent. Gabriel could clearly see the pain on the man's face, in his eyes; he wondered how much it would take to make him scream it out…

The sound of another gunshot pulled Gabriel back to the present. He stepped away from the prone figure in front of him, looking back over at the other man he'd knocked away so easily before. He was utterly still, a pool of blood quickly spreading out around his head from where Claire had pulled the trigger. Gabriel slowly released his invisible hold on the man at his feet, looking at the trembling girl a few feet away, her hands stained red with blood, though whether it was hers or that of the man she had killed he was unsure. He felt foggy, as though he had been a bystander watching his previous actions, the way he twisted and manipulated a man, the turn his thoughts had taken in only a few moment. He had wanted to kill him, despite the fact that he had no abilities. He hadn't known it was necessary and simply done it, accepted it; he had craved the power that came with it, the rush of blood and adrenaline that resulted from taking another's life into your own and destroying it. He was reverting.

It was obvious to him, watching the way she slowly moved to her feet, her eyes wide and frightened, that Claire didn't share his sentiments about bloodlust. He could hear the distant dialing of a phone from inside the motel, and it was those three simple digits that finally pulled him from his reverie. He grasped Claire by the arm and pulled her towards the car, somewhat surprised that she didn't fight against his touch as he deposited her in the front seat before getting in the driver's side, taking only moments before pulling out of the parking lot. He watched in the rearview mirror as the man whose wrist he had snapped hobbled to pick up his gun, though by then they were too far out of range to hit.

He pressed his foot nearly all the way to the floor, uncaring of speed limits or rules of the road, intent only on leaving the motel as far behind them as he possibly could. He caught a glimpse of Claire out of the corner of his eyes, small and pale and bloodied, and frowned slightly as he turned corner after corner, only content to slow down once the sound of sirens, which had begun to blare as soon as they left the motel, had fallen silent.

He turned off the headlights, heading out of the small town and back onto the more open road. If they remained unseen, they could leave the city far behind before their pursuers (or pursuer, now, he supposed) realized which way they'd gone. He kept his eyes focused straight ahead on the road, though occasionally he glanced behind them, searching for any telltale signs of pursuit. The night was dark and silent, and he finally relaxed slightly, allowing himself to plan their next move.

They would have to ditch the car. The men had said something about tracking the plates; they'd have to find another one, or another way to travel. He remembered their mention of phone calls, and glanced once more at Claire in the seat beside him, her eyes focused straight ahead and knees pulled to her chest.

"Did you use the motel phone?" He asked, and when she didn't respond he felt a sharp stab of anger fight its way to the surface of his being. The stress of the night, the lack of sleep, and his general annoyance at the entire situation had grown too much for his newfound patience.

"Claire," He repeated, and when she still didn't respond he pulled to the side of the road. It only took a moment to pull the keys from the ignition and turn to face her, though even then she didn't move, didn't even acknowledge what had happened.

"_Claire_," He repeated, grasping her shoulder and turning her to face him. "Did you use the motel phone?" He asked again. Her eyes were focused on something far beyond him, and he grasped her chin none-too-gently in his hand, forcing her to look his way. Still, she didn't see him.

"Claire!"

His voice reverberated through the small space, finally shaking her from her reverie. She jumped, looking first at him, then at the blood on her hands, and then at their surroundings. He didn't move his hand from her shoulder, mindful of the way his fingers dug slightly into her skin, the way she flinched slightly and tried to pull away from him.

"Yes," She said softly, and he let go of her shoulder, falling back into his seat with a groan. No wonder they had found them so easily; they could trace any phone call made to the Bennet household without batting an eye.

"That was stupid," he said quietly, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. She was looking at her hands, still stained red and sticky with blood.

"I wanted to hear their voices," She said, picking at one of her nails, struggling to scrape the blood from beneath it.

"Did they answer?" He asked, unsurprised as she shook her head.

"No."

Gabriel put his head back against the seat, closing his eyes with a sigh. He could feel the anger evaporating from his body, leaving him only with a quiet resignation and annoyance. He felt a slight shiver run down his spine as he pictured the events that had just unfolded in his mind. The bloodlust, the joy and rush of adrenaline as he towered over the man by his feet. That wasn't supposed to be him anymore, he thought helplessly. He wasn't Sylar any longer; he had left that man behind in Matt's basement, trapped forever in the back of his mind. He refused to let him out again. He may not have been the Gabriel Gray from his youth, but he sure as hell was no longer the cold, unfeeling serial killer that Claire associated him with.

"I killed him."

He turned back to Claire, who was facing him now, though her eyes had gone somewhere far beyond. He felt a frown tugging on his lips as he looked at her, tired-eyed and exhausted.

"You had no choice," He said quietly, and she shook her head.

"Of course I did," She said. "You always have a choice. I chose to kill him."

"He deserved it," Gabriel said simply, and blinked when she turned her eyes onto him, suddenly furious and alive.

"Says who?" She demanded. "Who are you, or anyone else, to decide who deserves to live and who deserves to die? No one has the right to make that decision. My father tried to do it all the time, and he was always wrong. You're just justifying yourself when you make excuses like that, instead of calling murder what it is."

She seemed surprised by her outburst, quickly tearing her eyes away from his and looking back out the window. He searched for words, though what could he say? He knew that he had no right to choose whether to take or give life. That was the part of himself he was most ashamed of: the way he had played god, stealing lives from those whose had only just begun, all for his own gain. His abilities were his life, the source of his pride and the very definition of his being. He'd thought that he was defining himself, making a name; and he was. Sylar. That was the only identity he had made for himself, and now he could never shake it off. Not truly.

"It was self-defense," he said finally, his voice somewhat flat. Another excuse, perhaps. Even if it was true.

"I can't die!" She shouted, looking back at him. "Nothing I ever do is self-defense if I don't need to defend myself. What I did to Brody wasn't self-defense, what I did to that orderly wasn't self-defense, and what I just did to that man sure as hell wasn't self-defense, either!" She cried, gesturing at the blood on her hands. "I killed them, in one way or another. All of them. And I'm barley even sorry. What does that say about me?"

He was silent, wondering if she was even aware of who she was speaking to any longer. He didn't know who Brody was, nor did he know what orderly she was referring to. Maybe she just needed to vent; he knew he was the perfect target for releasing guilt and anger upon. She'd made that abundantly clear already.

"And now here I am, in a car with a serial killer, asking for advice about redemption. God, how messed up is _that_?" She asked, a small, bitter laugh escaping her lips. "What is your body count, anyway, Sylar? 100? 200? Do you even know anymore?" She didn't wait for a response, though he was unsure he could have given one. "I'll bet mine beats even yours," She said finally, almost as an afterthought. "All of the people who have died since I jumped from that damn Ferris wheel; all of their deaths are on my hands. How does it feel to know that a _cheerleader _beat your record, Sylar?" She sneered, a somewhat hysterical laugh bubbling from her throat. "I'll bet that hurts your massive ego, doesn't it. Make you want to go back and finish killing that other guy? I saw you. You were enjoying yourself. Why didn't you finish?"

He was silent, though this time, it seemed, she truly was searching for an answer.

"The gunshot distracted me," he said honestly, and she smirked.

"Of course it did," she said quietly, turning back to the window. "Of course."

He felt distant from himself as he started the car once more, pulling back onto the road with the headlights off. His mind was racing, no longer the steady, calculated ticking of a clock. He was relapsing; he didn't _want_ to be Sylar again. He had left the demons of his past far behind, he thought, and yet somehow Claire brought them all back to the surface. He had done the most to her, hadn't he? Killed Meredith and Nathan, tormented her in her own home. Forced himself on her. Harassed and tortured her. He understood perfectly the hatred she harbored for him, her refusal to see the ways he had changed. To her, he would always be The Boogeyman, the monster underneath her bed waiting to grab her foot as soon as she let it slip off the side. Maybe, over time, she would change her mind.

Or maybe she would just kill him.

He glanced over at her, unsure whether or not she was asleep. He turned his eyes back to the road, tapping his long fingers on the steering wheel, counting the seconds as they passed. Finally, he spoke.

"None of the people who have died are on your hands, Claire," He said. He heard her shift slightly in her seat, though she didn't speak. He took this as a good sign, and continued. "You didn't kill them. It was the government, people who fear us. They pulled the trigger. You didn't." He was silent for a few moments, struggling to collect his thoughts. Finally, he simply shook his head, letting out a long breath.

"You could never be as bad as I was," He said softly. "You did what you had to do to survive, to keep your sanity. You didn't enjoy it. Until the day that you do, you'll always be better than me."

He knew that his words did little to comfort her, but they were all he had. He kept his eyes straight ahead, only glancing in her direction when she pushed her seat back, turning on her side, facing away from him.

_'I am Gabriel Gray,'_ he thought, but the words held little meaning after the night's events. All he could think of was the hunger, not only for abilities but for the simple pleasure of death, fighting its way to the surface. _'I am not a killer.'_

Humans made mistakes. They screwed up, they were flawed beings; Peter had told him this before, every time the hunger surfaced. _'It doesn't define you,' _he had said, but perhaps Peter had overestimated him. Perhaps he had overestimated himself.

"I am human," he whispered, but the words sounded nearly as hollow to him as they did to Claire.

_**To be continued.**_


	11. Connection

Claire hadn't realized how much weight she'd lost until she found herself standing in front of a small rack of jeans, struggling to find one that even looked like it wouldn't fall from her narrow hips.

It was nearly midnight; the store, though open twenty four hours a day, was nearly abandoned, with only the occasional late-night visitor wandering by, often muttering to themselves and looking lost. It was easy to blend in with them, as ragged-looking as she sure she was. She just hoped the blood was less noticeable now that she had flipped her sweater inside out.

She finally picked up a pair of dark blue jeans, guessing on the size based on the ones she already wore, hanging off her thin frame. She didn't take long before grabbing a dark green long-sleeved shirt from a small shelf and heading over to the shoes, uncomfortably aware of Sylar's presence at her back.

Of course it had taken him two seconds to find an outfit for himself. She imagined she could sense his impatience, as though she were purposely taking longer just to annoy him, as though she were shopping for the perfect outfit like any teenage girl. She bit her lip as she grasped the first pair of tennis shoes in her size that she could find, resisting the urge to spin around and tell him to go to hell. She just needed to make sure she would be able to move freely in whatever close she bought; it seemed that their trip to California was going to involve a lot more physical activity than she anticipated.

She spun around once she grabbed a pair of socks, nearly running into his chest. She glared at him until he stepped back, nodding towards the register on the other end of the store.

"Let's go," he said, and she bit her tongue and nodded.

The cashier didn't even bat an eye when Sylar asked if there was a place they could change, motioning towards a bathroom in the back. He gestured for her to go first, and Claire resisted the urge to roll her eyes at his chivalry as she took her bundle of clothes and headed for the small, dingy restroom.

The jeans fit; they were a bit loose, but not so much so that they would fall down if she moved too quickly. The shirt was tight, but Claire imagined that was the way it was meant to look. It wouldn't restrict her movement, at least. The tennis shoes were comfortable and well-made, and she knew that when she broke them in they would be perfect. They felt strange on her feet; the sandals she had 'borrowed' from the abandoned farmhouse had been hard enough to get used to, after two years of bare feet. She took a few steps in the small space before turning towards the mirror, barely able to resist the urge to flinch at her own reflection.

It was still strange to see herself after so long. She was thin, haggard, and pale, her hair hanging over her face as she knelt to run her hands under the water, rubbing the last vestiges of blood from her chin, her stomach turning as she did so. She struggled to ignore it as she pulled her hair up into a ponytail with a tie she had found back at the motel, no longer caring who it had once belonged to. She didn't look at herself again as she gathered her old clothes, dumping them unceremoniously into the trash can before walking back to the register.

"We have enough money to add more food," Sylar said as soon as she was within earshot, gesturing towards the conveyer belt. "We should stock up."

She was silent as she watched him go, turning back to the very bored-looking cashier as she glanced at their purchases. He had already placed a few bags of jerky on the belt, along with several water bottles and a few other snack foods. She frowned slightly, glancing at the small selection near the checkout before placing a few more bags of jerky and fruit snacks on the belt. If she kept eating like this, she wouldn't need to find smaller jeans.

She wanted to find a grocery store, somewhere they could buy food that would actually sustain them for longer than a few hours at a time, but Sylar said they were too far into cities to risk. She grudgingly accepted this, though she never said aloud that he was right. Even looking at him still made her sick.

Still, she had come to despise herself as well recently. She still didn't understand how she could have been so stupid as to use a phone when they were running from the government; of course they could track her without batting an eye. She'd just been so desperate to hear from her family, to know that they were okay and to let them know that she was, that she'd ignored common sense. It was a mistake she couldn't afford to make again.

She'd been making a lot of mistakes lately. Releasing Sylar in the first place instead of leaving him behind was the least of them, she thought distantly. Murdering the orderly and the nameless man the previous day were more than mistakes; mistakes implied that they were accidental, but they weren't. Even if she could chalk up the second to a momentary lapse of reason, the first had been anything but. She had known exactly what she was doing when she sliced that man's throat open, had even enjoyed it a little bit; she'd felt _right_, giving him what he deserved. She was getting rid of a source of fear, of helplessness, by showing that she _wasn't_ helpless. She was just as powerful as he was, and he would never make the mistake of hurting another girl ever again.

The thought made her sick. She'd always prided herself on some sort of moral ground, as Sylar had so kindly pointed out a few nights before. That she was somehow morally above him. She'd never murdered anyone, not for their abilities or her own selfish gain. She didn't steal from them, didn't try to make herself powerful by making others feel small. She wasn't a serial killer. And yet no matter how many times she told herself these things now, they felt strangely empty. She didn't know where she stood any longer, and the thought that she could be anything like the monster who had murdered her parents terrified her more than anything else.

She glanced up when the source of her fears walked back from the bathroom, dressed in a simple pair of black jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes; if he was going for inconspicuous, he shouldn't have dressed like a burglar.

"Are you ready?" He asked her as he paid the cashier, and she simply nodded, following him outside where he packed all of the food and water they'd purchased into the backpack. Claire folded her arms over her chest, glancing over at the road as a car passed by slowly, their headlights cutting a harsh path through the darkness. She felt a small tingle race over her back as it drove away; everything made her suspicious now, and she was itching to get moving again.

Sylar had stood up, the backpack slung over one shoulder as his eyes followed hers towards the retreating vehicle.

"We should go," he said simply, and she didn't answer as he began to walk around to the back of the store, cutting through a dingy alleyway between it and the warehouse next door. She followed close behind, nearly running into him when he stopped around the corner, securing the bag on his back.

"Shall we?" He asked, offering her a hand, and she shuddered slightly.

"Isn't it too dark for you to see?" She asked, and the way he looked at her made her wonder what other abilities he had picked up along the way.

"I'll be fine," He assured her, and she nodded, pushing back a small wave of revulsion as she took his hand, stepping up onto his feet.

"Alright," She said, wrapping her arms around his waist as they left the ground behind. They couldn't reach California soon enough.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

After their narrow escape from the motel, they had driven for hours before ditching the car on the side of the road, walking miles to the nearest store and buying their supplies. Sylar had said they knew the plates, and they had to leave it far behind in order not to leave a trail. She'd been in no state to disagree with him.

His plan was to fly and walk for a few more states before stealing another vehicle, thus ending their trail. She didn't understand how they could find roads that were so backwoods that someone wouldn't see them, but he had already marked out a few on the map, making her wonder if Molly Walker was dead after all.

Claire kept her eyes down, watching the distant lights of civilization pass by beneath their feet. She could hear his heart beating loudly in her ear, the sound both comforting and disturbing as the time passed by and he showed no signs of slowing. She remembered the way it had felt to fly this way with her father, even as she was furious with him and everything he had done. Finding herself in his arms by his own choice, that he wanted her even for those few moments, had brought a warmth to her chest that she hadn't felt in a long time. When she thought of him now she didn't see the mistakes he had made, the people he had hurt or the decisions he had made. She saw only her father, a man who she never truly got to know.

Thanks to Sylar.

She felt her fingers loosen behind his back, the way he struggled to shift his weight to accommodate her, his arms wrapping themselves around her back and holding her securely in place. She tore her eyes from the ground, her head spinning as she looked up at the sky instead, careful not to look at him. The night sky didn't pass by as quickly as she imagined it would have; it almost felt like a dream, to find herself this far up and not falling. She hated that she still felt that same sense of wonderment and adrenaline no matter whose arms she flew in.

It was impossible to keep track of time. The only indication she had that it was indeed passing was the gradual weight she felt settle over her body, the way her eyes began to drift closed, her arms shaking and locking tighter around Sylar's waist whenever she drifted off enough to lose her balance. She knew he was feeling the effects as well; she could feel the tension in his body diminish slightly, though she still refused to look up at his face to confirm her suspicions. It was only when he gave a mumbled warning that he would bring them down that she bothered to look below, all lights and signs of civilization seemingly gone.

She stepped off of his feet as soon as they touched ground, stepping away from him quickly and glancing at the small field he had chosen to land in. As they had made their way down, she'd only seen a small farmhouse miles away; this was no doubt their land, though she doubted they would make any late-night visits. She had no idea what state they were in, and part of her simply didn't care. She'd already relinquished control when she stepped up onto his feet; if Sylar wanted to dump her somewhere over the Atlantic, he could have done so already. She had to trust that he was taking them to California.

_Trust?_ She felt her hands clench into fists at her sides as the thought passed through her mind. She couldn't trust Sylar, no matter what kind of show he put on. She clenched her teeth together tightly as he handed her the bag, barely resisting the urge to snatch it from his hands and simply walk away. She took out a bottle of water and waited until he had sat down before choosing her own spot, several feet away, and watched him.

She'd had a hard enough time choosing who to trust already. It had been nearly impossible to open herself up to Gretchen; her face still brought a pang to her chest when she thought of her, unsure where she was or if she was even okay. It had taken Sylar's presence to make her change, to make her see that if she didn't learn to trust, she'd end up alone and miserable, just as he had been. In a twisted way, it was thanks to him-

She cut herself off abruptly, shaking her head as she watched him take small bites from a bag of jerky. His eyes occasionally glanced her way, though this time they quickly turned away when they found her own staring back. She sat up straighter, all semblances of sleep vanishing from her body. Sylar had brought his own fate upon himself; he didn't deserve her pity. She'd almost felt it for him two years ago when he showed up in her life once more, but that had been a mistake. He'd forced himself on her, after all. He'd only been there to help himself, as though a 'connection' with her would save him from an eternity alone.

_'I'm the only one who will be here with him when the world goes to hell,'_ she thought distantly, a quiet and cold resignation settling in her chest. _'No wonder he wants to 'connect' with me; he's afraid of being alone, and thought if he somehow made amends he could drop in on me in 200 years without a problem.'_

But there would always be a problem. He couldn't erase his past, even if he wanted to. He wasn't sorry for what he did; he was just afraid of spending eternity alone with himself. And who wouldn't be? Peter had told her that he'd spent three years by himself before he came along, adding another five. Peter had always been the good one; he was her definition of good, of what was right with the world even when she wanted to believe there was no hope left for anyone. Even if Sylar had been selfish in his intentions when he came to her before, Peter had insisted upon his change, that he wanted to pay for his sins and start anew. That he had saved Emma without any gain for himself. Peter, her hero, her friend…

She shifted her weight, taking a small sip of her water bottle before placing it in the grass beside her. She'd given her father a million chances, and even if he'd blown most of them, she always forgave him. She knew how important second chances were, was hoping for them herself, and yet…

She glanced over at Sylar, stiffening slightly as she realized he had already been looking at her. As soon as their eyes met, she felt him. He was in her mind again, the same way he had been back in college while he held her down, when he held her prisoner in her own home, when he trapped her and her family in a maze of his own making, watching her mother burn…

He was trying to connect with her, she realized suddenly. She could see his own memories of Peter when they had been trapped together, the sheer joy of seeing another human face, the pain he'd felt when Peter turned away every hand he offered. She saw through his eyes, his body, the moment he rescued Emma, how good it felt to know that he had done something right for once in his life. She saw him as a child, watching his father murder his mother, being pawned off like an object to strangers, abandoned and alone. Adopted, just like her. Manipulated, just like her. Always searching for a connection, always being lied to…just like her.

She was no longer sitting in the grass. She was in the house of mirrors at Samuel's carnival, watching every crime of her life be thrown in her face, feeling the complete horror and anguish as she realized just exactly what she'd done to so many people. She was trapped in Matt Parkman's mind, a soul desolate from its body, trapped and confused and angry and _scared. _She was a nobody who wanted to be a somebody, an insecure child trying to fit into the body of a man, a watchmaker who just wanted to be _special_, if only to please the only person in his life who had never abandoned him.

For a moment, she was Sylar. She was Gabriel Gray, and she swore she could understand. She felt pity, sympathy, empathy; she almost felt _forgiveness._

In the next, however, she felt him touch that part of herself that she kept the most hidden, buried the deepest. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, struggling to push away the images that emerged, of herself on an autopsy table, pushing bones back into place, cutting herself so deeply she could see the bones underlying her skin; every scrape, bruise, and burn since the moment she discovered her ability flashed by in a moment, and she felt her chest constrict, the air knocked from her lungs by an imaginary blow. She saw herself thrown against the wall on Homecoming night, watched Jackie die at the hands of The Boogeyman even as she healed herself beneath his gaze. She watched him heal himself with _her_ ability, stolen in a way that she could only describe as rape. He would be unstoppable if he regained her ability; he would be free to do anything he pleased, free to go back to the way he was. Free to kill.

She ripped herself away from his grasp with a sharp gasp, blinding pain exploding behind her eyes as the grass rose to meet her prone form. Her head was throbbing as she slowly came back to herself, the distant chirping of crickets the only noise she could hear. Her cheeks were damp, and for a single, panicked moment, she feared that he'd somehow cut her open again, that it was blood she felt trailing its way slowly down to her chin. It wasn't until she heard her own breath escape in a sob that she realized what she felt were tears, not blood.

Somehow, everything _hurt. _She felt her own grief, but somehow she also felt his. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, struggling to stem the flow of tears. Her body heaved with nearly silent sobs as she wrapped her arms around her stomach, as though that could hold her together while everything fell apart.

"_You hate me because it's easy, because it's comfortable. Because seeing me in any other light would be betraying those you loved that I killed, would be questioning the very rocky moral ground you stand on. You don't want to admit that we're alike, that anything about us could possibly coincide."_

She heard his voice as though from a distance, the very words he had spoken to her a few nights ago in the car. He was right; in the past few minutes she had betrayed everyone she loved when she felt pity for the monster who took them away from her. She had betrayed Meredith and Nathan; she had betrayed her father, who strived to protect her from the very real monster under her bed; she had betrayed everyone he had ever killed, had made the grief and pain they felt worth nothing by allowing herself, for even a second, to imagine that this man deserved forgiveness. She'd made their deaths meaningless. She'd made her own suffering worth nothing; every sleepless night and muffled scream, every tear she'd shed for those he killed may as well have been the dirt beneath her feet.

_"I spent eight years searching for forgiveness, Claire. I found it from Peter, and that was more than I could ever expected or hoped for."_

Eight years for dozens of lives. Eight years for an endless amount of grief and suffering; though hadn't he shared in much of it? She herself had said that his powers may have smothered his humanity, had given him the idea to rid himself of them…

"_I know you hate me. And I would expect nothing less of you. You know that we're similar, don't you, Claire. And that's what scares you. You can't stop hating me because that means you'll have to stop hating yourself, and you don't think you can do that."_

She pulled her knees to her chest, barely hearing the strange sounds coming from her mouth as she struggled to stifle her tears once more. He was right about one thing, at least: she would never stop hating herself, not for what she'd done to so many innocent people, not for the two murders she'd committed, and never for the pity she somehow still felt for Gabriel Gray.

She heard him move closer, felt his hand on her shoulder as he spoke softly through her cries.

"I'm so sorry, Claire," he said. "I didn't mean to do this. I wasn't trying to take your ability…I just wanted to understand. I wanted to help."

He'd wanted to understand everyone whose minds he had cut out. He hadn't wanted to help them, and as much as she wanted to believe he was lying to her now, she knew, somehow, that he wasn't. She turned her face away from him, hating herself all the more for allowing this show of weakness in front of him. He placed his hand on her shoulder once more, attempting to help her up, and she spun around to face him, lashing out as her nails raked long, thin lines into his cheek. The only comfort she found was in the moment the blood rose to the surface and slowly began to drip down towards his chin as he drew back in pain and surprise.

He didn't heal.

_**To be continued.**_

**Note:** All I could listen to while writing this last part was Slow Dancing in a Burning Room by John Mayer…just felt like sharing that.


	12. Reflection

Gabriel never lost track of time. Even when he wanted to forget where he was, what he was doing, or how slowly time seemed to pass, his mind refused to allow him any respite. The seconds ticked by exactly as they should; he marked off every hour as it passed, able to almost mechanically recite the time down to a second. It was part of what had nearly driven him back to the brink of insanity during the two years, three months, and seven days he spent in that hellhole. He remembered every second of it.

Thus the next two weeks somehow felt much longer. Every day he and Claire flew until he could no longer keep his eyes open, slept in the most secluded spot they could find, and began again the next morning. He kept as much distance from her as he could, unwilling to push her to the edge once more; he was still unsettled from the last time, and didn't intend to witness it again, nor to cause it. He wasn't quite sure what had disturbed him the most: seeing this side of a girl he had always thought of as stubborn or strong, or knowing that he had violated her once more, even after trying his hardest to convince her that he wouldn't.

Several days would pass in complete silence, with him only willing to break it to offer her a water bottle or the last bag of chips, which she always took without looking at him, somehow issuing a chill into air with a simple turn of her shoulder. The further they made their way, the less the snow seemed to be an issue. He detoured slightly south in an attempt to avoid any further storms, and to make sleeping outside more bearable. Of course Claire never complained, but he didn't want to lose any fingers or toes; they wouldn't grow back.

He kept his head ducked down as he made his way through the city streets, his long stride taking him farther and farther from the narrow alleyway where he'd left Claire. She had insisted on coming with, but he knew it would be too conspicuous; they were hunting for the two of them together, not separate. And he had a better chance of getting away, if things got bad.

He kept his hat on, the brim pulled low over his eyes as he walked into the small convenience store, somewhat amused by this turn of events. He pulled a basket from the entrance and quickly began to fill it with however much food he thought they could carry in the backpack they'd purchased before. He felt a frown tug on his lips as he searched for items that wouldn't expire but still held more nutritional value than snack food from a gas station. By the time he made it to the register, with a full basket in one hand and the quickly-thinning roll of money in the other, only twenty minutes had passed, a fact he was all too aware of. His footsteps rang like the ticking of a clock in his ears as he began to place the items he'd chosen on the belt, shoving his hands into his pockets as he waited for the cashier to ring them up.

It was later at night, and as such the store wasn't packed with people, both an advantage and a disadvantage to him. He would be more likely to be recognized with more people around, but at the same time, he would be the only one to look at now. He unconsciously tugged the brim of his cap down, ignoring the sideways glance the woman at the register gave him as his eyes wandered up to the TV above her head, invariably on a news station.

There had been a bus crash in Chicago, which killed five people. A robbery in Atlantic City with one fatality. It felt like a repeat of every report he'd seen before; the mundane workings of the world hadn't changed. Crime rates and unlawful behavior were just as they had always been. He was pulling two twenties from the small pile in his hand, about to hand them to the cashier, when he heard his name.

He barely felt her take the money, offering him change with an outstretched hand. His eyes tore themselves from her own and back to the TV screen, where he found himself staring back.

"Another update on the hunt for the escaped specials from the hospital in Pennsylvania," the voice was saying. "The priority right now is this man, Gabriel Gray, also known as 'Sylar'. He is considered armed and extremely dangerous, and is not to be approached under any circumstances. Please call the number at the bottom of your screen if you see him, or to report anything that may aid in our search."

He quickly turned back to the cashier, taking his change with a forced smile as he began to place the items in paper bags. He had changed his appearance before leaving Claire, though somehow he still felt naked, exposed. He slid his hat farther up his forehead as his eyes traveled back to the screen, his hands pausing in their work as the story continued.

"It's important that we stress just how dangerous this individual is," The anchor was saying, his voice carefully neutral. "As many of you know, he cut a trail across the country a few years back, quite literally." Gabriel cringed at the pun. "He cut open the heads of his victims, leaving them with empty skulls. We now know that he did this to acquire their abilities. We've also recently confirmed what many already suspected: that he was responsible for the murder of Virginia Gray, his mother. She was killed with a different M.O. than his other victims, in what we can only assume was a crime of passion. He was last spotted in Illinois, though the police have confirmed that he is most likely traveling east, possibly with a blonde teenager. Please be alert and vigilant; report any suspicious activity to your local law enforcement. Thank you."

Gabriel didn't realize his hands had begun to tremble until the cashier spoke, pulling him from his reverie.

"What a sick bastard," She said, gesturing towards the TV that he somehow still could not tear his eyes away from. "I hope they catch him. I can't imagine why they kept him alive in that hospital instead of putting him down like the dog he is."

He stilled his hands, turning to look at the woman, so utterly ordinary and uninteresting. She thought she understood everything by what someone else told her, was as blind and stupid as every normal human being was. He felt a smirk curl his lips as he put the last item in his bag, shrugging his shoulders and peering at her from beneath the brim of his cap.

"Perhaps they found him…interesting," He said, tipping his hat in a mock gesture of kindness as she looked at him, surprised. "Have a good night," He called over his shoulder, exiting the store with her eyes on his back.

He took back alleyways, keeping his disguise until he reached the far end of the city. He smiled despite the pain, rolling his shoulders and neck as he became accustomed to his own skin. That particular ability was one he no longer could enjoy; after spending months as someone else, it had lost its appeal.

_ 'That, and you murdered for it,'_ a small voice in the back of his mind whispered, and he felt a shiver run down his spine as he stepped back into the snaking alleyway where Claire sat, her back against the wall as she waited.

She looked up when he came close, setting the two small bags down and sliding down into a sitting position across from her, unable to stretch his long legs fully in the cramped space.

"A lot of it is canned food," He said, watching as she dug through the two bags. "I didn't get a can opener, but…" He trailed off at the look on her face, catching a brief image of her sawed-off skull lying on the living room carpet, unsure whose mind it came from. He was silent as she began to pull food from the bags and place it in the backpack, leaving out a few cans of soup on the pavement.

She simply held them out to him, careful not to let their fingers touch as he took them, opening them with a simple flick of his fingers. He handed one back to her, settling back against the wall, feeling the cold seep through his shirt and settle deep into his bones. There was no snow on the ground, but the chill in the air was sharp and real, and he found himself reaching for his jacket within a few minutes.

The chill didn't disperse, even once he'd slid his jacket on and moved away from the cool bricks. All he could think of was the way it had felt to see the fear on the cashier's face as he spoke, the strange way she looked at him when he nearly complimented the monster they condemned on the new report. He had found himself _enjoying_ her discomfort, even reveling in it. He'd been angry, upset; she didn't know who she was speaking to. She didn't know how hard he'd tried to repent, to remake himself. She didn't know that he hadn't meant to kill his mother, would never have even thought of it...

What was the point in trying so hard to repent if no one would ever forgive him? The thought had been running through his mind ever since the night of the carnival. Every time he had nearly given in to his urges, been pulled back either by himself or Peter, he'd wondered. He'd voiced this thought to Peter at one point, who had looked at him, somewhat exasperated, and said that if his entire person was hinging on the feelings of others, he'd never feel redeemed. That not everyone would, or could, forgive him his mistakes, nor should he expect them to. That he had to want to be different for himself, not for others. The words brought a frown to his lips as he glanced at Claire, who had already finished her can of soup and was looking everywhere and anywhere but at him. He wanted to be different – _was _different – for himself. It just would have been easier to maintain if it didn't feel like others still saw him as Sylar.

Though it had been two weeks since the night he'd nearly attained Claire's ability, he still remembered it clearly. He had sworn that, if only for a moment, she had seen him as more than the serial killer plastered over the news. He'd sworn she'd seen Gabriel: both the man he used to be and the man he was trying to be now. He would never be the lowly watchmaker from Queens again, even if he shared his name. He wasn't trying to be him; he just wanted to be…better.

_'A hero,'_ a distant voice whispered, and the word seemed completely out of place with his face. But hadn't that been what he was, when he rescued Emma?

It didn't seem to matter, not to Claire. Whatever she had seen that night had shaken her too badly to ever be accepted. He didn't bother trying to explain himself again, that it truly had been an accident, because he was beginning to doubt even that. He had caught a stray thought, his own name, a feeling of confusion and doubt. He knew that invading her privacy was wrong, too alike to what he'd done in the past, but something had felt off. It was hardly an excuse, and yet when he entered her mind, he found himself pulled to something.

He could only imagine what she'd seen, what she'd felt, when he began to empathize with her. He only knew what he had seen: a girl lied to by her father, time and time again. An outcast among outcasts. The fear of her own abilities, her family. Watching her father have his body shot and memory erased, all to protect her. The guilt over all he had done for this very same purpose. The helplessness when she was trapped with Meredith, her lungs constricting with a desire for air they didn't need, the desperation and fury when she choked out the real reason for her actions, the desperate way she wanted to make Sylar pay for what he'd done to her. When she thought she'd lost her father, when she found out she had lost Nathan; he'd felt truly guilty for the first time in what felt like years, seeing through her eyes everything that he'd done. He felt as though he understood her; she wasn't a timepiece he could examine and fix, find the inner workings of as he'd tried to do when she was in college. She was so much more complex than that; everyone was, in a way. He had no right to generalize, to treat them as less than human, no matter their abilities or lack of.

He looked down at the can in his hand, frowning slightly as he took a small sip of the cold broth. He didn't know what had pulled her from the trance, breaking the connection between them. All he knew was that when she drew blood from his skin, it continued to flow. And yet the hunger hadn't returned at that moment as he'd expected it to. He had felt no desire for her ability at that moment; all he had felt was a strange sense of guilt and desperation, watching her lie on the grass and cry, knowing now how much she would hate her own weakness, especially in front of The Boogeyman.

"I was thinking that we shouldn't steal another car," He said, suddenly desperate to break the silence. "If they follow us to California, they'll know exactly where to look. I'm sure they're already monitoring your home and mine. Probably Peter's, too. Everyone's." He met her gaze, uncomfortably aware of the anger lying behind it. "It will take an extra week or so, but I think it's best."

He expected her to put up a fight. He was well aware that she hated having to be so close to him every day, was eager to set foot in California so she could leave him behind, but she was silent. He looked at her until she finally spoke, her face as blank as his own.

"Fine," She said, shoving the backpack out of the way as she stretched out on the filthy ground, using her balled-up jacket as a pillow. He knew full well that she wouldn't sleep that night, that she never did unless he was far away. Still, there wasn't much he could do but move further down the wall, his long legs scrunched up awkwardly in a sad attempt to give her more space. He stayed upright, his arms folded across his chest and hat pulled down over his eyes, his mind playing and replaying the news report from earlier that night.

_ 'What a sick bastard. I can't imagine why they kept him alive in that hospital instead of putting him down like the dog he is.'_

He saw Virginia, lying with wide eyes on the floor of her home, a pair of scissors marking the place where he'd ended her life, and frowned.

_'Perhaps they found him…interesting.'_

Like a puzzle to take apart, piece by piece; like an animal kept in a cage, poked and prodded by curious children. He shifted his weight uncomfortably, his mind ticking too steadily for him to find sleep. It had been seventeen hours and twenty-three minutes since the last time he'd slept, and still time ticked on, steady and unchanging.

_'Thirty-two minutes.'_

_ 'Thirty-three.'_

And still he could not rest.


	13. Confession

By the time they reached the border of California, it was February.

It had been a little over a month since their escape from Pennsylvania, and Claire had never imagined that time could move so slowly. She had fallen back into an apathetic acceptance, keeping as much distance as she could from Sylar in the limited space allotted to them. The hatred she had harbored so strongly had begun to diminish ever since the night she'd seen him through his own eyes, and though she still refused to let go of it, it was harder to find when she needed something comfortable, something familiar, to hold onto.

They had depleted their funds a week ago. She missed the feeling of a cold shower, which they had been able to sneak from various hotel rooms over the course of their journey. She felt gritty and dirty, but the physical discomfort was nothing compared to what she felt in the pit of her stomach.

It would only take a few more days to reach Costa Verde. She would see her home, her family, and find out what had happened in the two years since she was taken from them. She refused to entertain the what-ifs: what if her father had died that night? What if her family had long since moved on? What if they had been hurt because of who she was, what she had done? What if they didn't want to see her? She pushed these thoughts away whenever they intruded her mind; none of them mattered. She would cross those bridges when she came to them, not before. The important thing was she was almost home, a word that still tasted foreign on her tongue.

She hadn't said a word to Sylar in many days, perhaps weeks. She found that words weren't needed; he knew perfectly well how she felt about him, and seemed to think better of any words that came to his lips. She spent every moment alone with him thinking of other things, anything that would completely negate the possibility of empathy. Meredith's smiling face, Nathan's cold exterior, the smell of a burning building and flesh as her mother was reduced to ash. All of these were Sylar's fault, the work of his hands, and as long as she held onto them, he would never be able to connect with her again.

She still felt disgusted with herself for allowing it to happen in the first place. She'd slipped up, something she couldn't afford to do with him. He preyed on weakness, and every opportunity she gave him could be the last mistake she made. A simple shard of glass in the back of her head would be the end, at least for a while.

She had found that she didn't truly need sleep, another advantage of her ability. Her body would exhaust just like anyone else's, and aches and pains accompanied the mornings after tossing and turning, but she would heal herself from the inside out; dark circles under her eyes would disappear in hours, and though she still felt emotionally exhausted, her body recuperated. It made the nights spent in close quarters with Sylar slightly more bearable if she knew he couldn't move without her seeing him.

She tried to focus on only the current moment. If she thought too hard about their destination, anxiety and excitement made it hard to focus on her current objective: making it to Costa Verde in one piece. They had managed to keep a low enough profile that the incident at the motel hadn't repeated itself, though she felt a constant presence over her shoulder every day, as though if she were to turn around, she would be whisked back to hell.

She hadn't slept for more than an hour at a time in over a week when Sylar announced that they could reach Costa Verde the next day, if they flew until nightfall. And though he slept that night, she spent her time counting the seconds that passed, waiting until the sun finally rose.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

Claire Bennet stared up at the two-story home she had called home for years, realizing with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that she barely recognized it any longer.

She stepped over the broken glass that littered the front lawn, ignoring Sylar's quiet protests as she shouldered open the front door, the smell of mildew and dust reaching her nose. It was eerie, she thought distantly. The furniture remained, more or less as it had been. The couch sat resolute in its spot in the living room, though the TV was tipped over and smashed, the glass littering the carpet. The cupboards were open in the kitchen, their contents spilled out over the floor or countertops, as though someone had been in a very big hurry. The smell of burnt wood was strong as she made her way to the back of the house, finding herself staring outside where the wall had been destroyed by a fire.

The carpet by the front door was still stained with her father's blood.

She didn't know what she had been expecting, coming back here. That everything would be exactly as she left it? That she would find Lyle on the couch, his DS on his lap while he rolled his eyes and pretended to listen to their mother? That Sandra would be in the kitchen, making toast and orange juice for her husband and children? She imagined she could see them, moving through the rooms like ghosts, their whispered words lost before they could reach her ears. She stepped into the sitting room across from the front door, the table in the center strangely intact. She saw herself lying on it, the top of her head cast carelessly on the other side of the room while Sylar spoke in riddles with his fingers in her brain. It was like a memorial of some sort, a sick reminder of what had happened. She wanted to break it like everything else had been destroyed, but as she took a step toward it, she heard his voice in her mind.

'_How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?'_

'_How do we make love stay?'_

A shiver ran down her spine and she turned away, no longer hearing his footsteps behind her as she ran up the stairs to her bedroom.

This, too, had remained untouched. Her bed was made, the bears piled carefully atop it, though she knew she hadn't left it this way. She imagined her father stepping through the hallway, carefully arranging her room into a strange sort of memorial to his lost daughter, never opening the door again. Had he given up on her? The thought made her stomach clench.

The room didn't look like hers. It had felt like a stranger's long before now; she felt as though she were looking through a window to the past, at a teenager who had tried to grow up too fast, somehow always pulled back to being a child. Even sentimental value had been depleted. She felt next to nothing looking at the posters on her wall, every bear her father had given her with a smile on his face and her nickname on his lips. It wasn't real anymore. This life was gone, and she felt stupid for imagining that she could just walk back into something she had left behind long ago.

She closed the door firmly behind her, walking past her brother's room and her mother and father's. They had moved back in together after the carnival, her father insisting that he could protect her better if he was in the same house. After a month they had moved back into the same room, though she still often heard them fighting, their cold and stony silences freezing the entire house over.

She felt detached as she made her way back down the stairs, refusing to look at the lighter spaces on the walls where pictures had once been. She found Sylar where she had left him, his arms folded across his chest as he stared at the table, a frown on his lips. She leaned against the doorframe, waiting until he turned slowly to look at her. She pressed her lips together tightly at the pity that was blatantly obvious in his face, though she didn't feel angry. She didn't feel much of anything, a thought that was vaguely alarming, considering the fact that she had only recently regained her capacity for pain. It didn't distress her, however; she found that she didn't care much at this point. Why should she? Her family was gone; whether they were alive or not didn't matter. She had no way of finding them. Her father had gotten rid of his cell phone to avoid being tracked, and had insisted his family do the same. Wherever they were, she had no means of communicating with them. They were just gone.

"Claire," He began, and she cut him off.

"There's nothing here," she said flatly. "I don't know why I thought there would be."

"We can go to Peter," he suggested, and she felt her lips turn up into a smirk.

"Why? You honestly think he's in the same place you left him? They probably found him, too. He might have been back in Pennsylvania and we never knew it. We might have gone this whole way for nothing."

"Peter had a plan," He said, and she cut him off once more.

"I know you just want to see him so you can justify yourself, so he can pat you on the head and tell you that everything's okay, but it's _not_," She snapped, standing up straight and folding her arms across her chest. "You can't run to him every time you need to be reassured. My uncle doesn't deserve that; he doesn't deserve to have to deal with you. Peter is too noble for his own good. It probably got him killed a long time ago, plan or no plan. Don't you get it, Sylar?" She demanded, feeling herself come back to her own body, her anger fueling her words and bringing life back to her limbs. "Everything's gone. Everyone we knew is gone, either hiding, dead, or captured. The world has gone to shit, and there's nothing left to do. It's over."

She took a step back when he moved forward, his eyes narrowed and hands clenched into fists.

"No, it's not," He said, his voice low, the anger in his tone bringing her back to the moment. "I'm not going to let them get away with doing this to us. I didn't expect you to give up so easily, Claire," He said, her name on his lips sending a shiver down her spine. "Weren't you the one who said you would never stop trying to kill me?" He asked, and she remembered sitting with him in the hotel suite, a puppet on his strings. "You're tenacious; you're dedicated, and yet you'd let them get away with destroying your home and your family? What about all of those innocent people who can still be saved? Don't you want to help them?" He demanded, and she glared at him, hating herself and him, knowing that everything he said was true.

Revenge wasn't a good motivator; she knew that, and yet it was the only one she had. It was the thing that had been driving her to kill Sylar ever since the day he first intruded into her life, and it was what had kept her going for the past month. She wanted them to suffer, to pay for what they'd done. She thought of the man who had been behind so much of the humiliation and degradation she'd suffered at the hospital, his blue eyes peering at her from above a surgical mask as he turned her into an experiment, something less than human that he could manipulate and use in any way that he wanted. She thought of the uniformed men who had taken her from her family, the ones who had possibly killed her father, and she wanted them to pay for everything.

She saw a strange look on Sylar's face as she pushed past him, brushing against the table as she went. It was pointless to upset herself over the house; it was no longer hers, hadn't been for a long time. She wouldn't look for Peter; she knew that he wouldn't be at his apartment, and she didn't have a chance of finding him in the chaos she had created. She had to find a place to stay, to plan her next move, whatever it may be.

She had barely set foot outside when she felt Sylar grasp her arm tightly. She gritted her teeth together, barely thinking as she brought her elbow back into his stomach, twisting herself out of his grasp and shoving him to the ground with strength she didn't know she possessed. She heard his sharp intake of breath as he fell to his knees, and couldn't help but smirk at the position she had put him in. She stepped around him, turning her eyes back to the door, only to find herself face-to-face with Sylar once more, blocking the exit and looking at the figure behind her with unconcealed shock in his eyes.

Her eyes widened slightly as she glanced back at the form on the ground behind her, her mind taking too long to catch up to what her eyes clearly saw. It wasn't Sylar on the floor, looking up at her from behind a mop of brown hair. It wasn't Sylar who pulled himself to his feet, a sheepish and familiar grin on his face as he looked her up and down, the smile slowly fading as he met her eyes once more.

"Claire," Peter whispered, and she could only stare as he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tightly to his chest and burying his face in her shoulder, as though reassuring himself that the person he held in his arms was real, and not a figment of his imagination. She felt a laugh bubble up from her throat, relief crashing over her like a wave as she crushed herself to him, holding him so tightly her arms ached.

"Peter," She gasped, pulling back only slightly to look at his face. He was the same, though somewhere along the way he'd acquired a nasty scar, stretching diagonally across his face. She ran her fingers over it lightly, closing her eyes as she memorized this new part of him, committing his face to memory once more, ashamed that she had nearly forgotten it. She only heard the sound of his breathing, felt the soft exhale of his breath on her cheek as he looked at her, his thumb wiping away tears that she didn't know were falling.

"You're okay," He whispered, and despite everything, despite the turmoil and anger and hatred she still felt inside of herself, she nodded.

"I am now," She said softly, allowing him to pull her to his chest once more as she let herself truly relax for the first time in years. Finally, she felt safe.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

"I've been going to your house every day at the same time since you escaped," Peter said, handing Claire a warm mug of coffee where she sat at his kitchen table. "I figured that eventually you would find your way there. I wanted to make sure I was there when you did."

Claire offered him a small smile, taking a grateful sip of her coffee. She had forgotten how good it tasted, and though she knew realistically that her body would negate any effects of caffeine, she imagined she could feel energy returning to her body.

"Thank you," she said quietly, aware and uncaring that she was staring at him. He didn't seem to mind; he places his hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly before going back to the counter, making another mug and handing it to Sylar, who stood on the other end of the room. Claire quickly tore her eyes away when Peter touched his shoulder in much the same way, eliciting a small smile from the serial killer.

"I didn't expect to find you two together," Peter said, and Claire stiffened, gripping the cup tighter and ignoring the pain in the palms of her hands from the heat. She saw Sylar shift his weight uncomfortably from the corner of her eye, shrugging as his hair fell over his eyes.

"Claire saved me," he said simply, and the ease with which it fell from his lips made her more uncomfortable than anything else could have. She saw Peter's eyebrows rise in surprise, though he quickly smoothed over his expression, nodding.

"I know it's still early in the day, but I think you two should rest before we talk," He said, walking back to the sink and taking down another mug for himself. He continued speaking even with his back turned, pouring himself a mug of coffee.

"Claire, you can stay in the guest room. It's small, but it's nice. Gabriel, you can take my room. I'll sleep on the couch."

"Peter, you don't have to do that," Sylar said, and Claire nearly choked at the sincere tone of his voice, the ease with which he spoke to her uncle. "I'll be fine on the couch. I don't want to impose on you."

Peter turned back to them, frowning slightly at Sylar, who backed up visibly.

"It's fine," Peter said simply, though Claire sensed something more beneath his words, the way they looked at each other. "You're so much taller than me, anyway. You'll be more comfortable in a bed."

Claire frowned slightly as Sylar nodded silently, taking a small sip from his mug before setting it down on the counter.

"Thank you," He said, and Peter just nodded before turning back to her. She sat up straighter, keeping Sylar within her sight from the corner of her eyes.

"Claire, I can go pick up some clothes for you, if you'd like," He offered, and she began to shake her head before she realized just how filthy she was. "I'd assume there's still some in your closet back at home," He added, pausing slightly on the use of the word 'home', seeming to relax when she nodded.

"Thank you, Peter," She said quietly. He smiled at her, and for a moment it didn't matter what else had happened, what else was happening. She was just happy to have her uncle back.

Still, she couldn't shake a question from her mind. She sat in silence as she finished her coffee, smiling slightly as Peter took the mug from her and put it in the sink. She could feel Sylar's eyes on her, imagined that he was analyzing her, searching for what was causing the clear hesitation and indecision on her features. She waited until Peter had shown her to the small guest room, set off to the side of the front door in a thin hallway, before voicing her thoughts.

"Do you know what happened to my family?" She asked, forcing herself to meet his eyes when he turned to look at her.

"No," He said quietly, and she bit her tongue as he continued. "By the time I heard about what had happened to you, and your father being shot, your mother and brother had already moved out. I checked local hospitals for a Noah Bennet, either alive or a death certificate, but there was nothing. I'm sorry, Claire. I don't know where they are."

She shook her head, offering him a thin smile.

"Thank you anyway," she said softly, accepting the hug he offered, pushing back the tears that threatened to spill over. There were no definite answers yet; that meant that they could all be alive and well, in hiding. Her father wasn't dead; there was no body. He was alive; he had to be. He always had a plan, and she had no doubt that he was executing it somewhere else, searching for her. She would find him.

"I'll go pick up some things for you," Peter said, and she pulled herself from her thoughts, nodding as he stepped back. "I'll leave them outside the door. You can shower, or sleep—anything you want. Just don't leave the apartment. The only way I've managed to keep myself hidden is by using Hiro's power," He said, and she nodded, remembering the way it had felt to be whisked away from one place and suddenly find herself in another. It was how he had brought her here.

"I understand," She affirmed. "Is Sylar going with you?" She asked, ignoring the way he raised his brow.

"No. He needs some rest, too," He said, and she nodded.

"Of course."

"Claire…" Peter began, and she cut him off.

"It's fine. Thank you again, Peter," She said, resisting the urge to beg him to stay with her, not to leave her alone with Sylar for another minute. Instead she watched as he turned his back, offering her one last smile before pulling the door closed behind him and leaving her alone.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

Peter had brought back most of her dresser, along with half of her closet, and Claire couldn't help but be amused by the sheepish way he smiled as he explained that he didn't know what still fit her or what she wanted to wear. It was nearly three p.m. by that time, and she had nodded, taking out a simple tank top and pair of sweatpants, locking herself in the bathroom for the next hour as she attempted to scrub off every inch of dirt from her body, every memory of the past month that still lingered on her skin.

She washed her hair three times before feeling satisfied that all of the dirt was gone, though even then she couldn't bring herself to step out. She couldn't help but remember how many hours she had spent wrapped in Sylar's arms, and each time she did she tried to scrape off another layer of skin. It wasn't until the water began to run cold that she turned it off, wrapping herself in a towel and stepping out into the bathroom. The mirror was fogged over, and she shivered slightly as she cleared a small space to see her reflection. She ran the brush Peter had brought from her home through her hair, surprised and annoyed at the infinite number of knots. She had been unable to comb it in any of the hotel rooms, and hadn't found it in herself to care. Now, it seemed like one more step to normalcy that she couldn't take. It was with that thought in mind that she took a pair of scissors from a drawer under the sink and cut above the highest knot, watching faded blonde hair rain down on the counter. When she was finished, she barely recognized herself. Her hollowed-out cheeks were far more prominent with her hair only reaching her chin; she shivered slightly, sweeping up the mess she had made and throwing it away before running the comb through what was left of her hair. She pulled on the clothing Peter had brought back for her, somewhat put off by the way they still somehow managed to hang off her thinning frame. It felt strange, to be wearing her own clothes again. They were still too large, though they didn't look nearly as ridiculous as the clothing she'd 'borrowed' from the farmhouse had. They were familiar, if only distantly, and that was a comfort she was thankful for.

She hurried back to the guest room, unwilling to find herself face-to-face with Sylar again until Peter returned. It wasn't that she was afraid of him; she still knew that he couldn't heal, and all it would take was a well-placed hit to put an end to him. She hated that he still made her this uncomfortable, this unsure of herself. She held the power now, not him. She was stronger. Still, she found herself locking the bedroom door and lying down on the bed, running her hands absent-mindedly over the light blue quilt that covered the mattress, unable to still the racing of her mind. It had still been days since she'd slept, and though she was still alone with The Boogeyman, she was no longer close to him. It was easy to pretend that she was back home two years ago, safe and protected and comfortable. It was with this mindset that she found herself drifting off, too far gone to rouse herself even when she finally heard Peter's voice.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

It was dark outside when Claire woke.

It took her a moment to place her surroundings. She was still lying in bed, though somehow the covers had been pulled over her, now tangled around her limbs like snakes from when she had tossed and turned in her sleep. The window was open, a light breeze wafting over her prone form, stirring the strands of blonde hair that hung over her eyes.

She was with Peter. The thought brought an unexpected warmth to her chest, which quickly cooled as she remembered who else was within these walls with them. She sat up slowly, disentangling herself from the bed and stepping over to the door as her stomach growled. She had grown sick of canned food, and wondered if Peter had made dinner already; judging by the light outside, or lack of, she figured he had. She hoped there was some left; she was sick of canned food.

She heard their voices as soon as she stepped into the hallway. They were talking quietly, though as she took the few steps to the entryway their words became clearer, more distinct, and she could differentiate between the two.

"It's been hard, but we're managing," Peter was saying as she pressed her back against the wall, peering around the corner and into the barely-lit living room. He was sitting on the couch, his eyes trained on Sylar, who sat in the armchair next to the side-table, half of his face illuminated almost eerily by the lamplight. "Aliases, constant moving. The only reason I can keep this place is because I've been holding onto HIro's ability; it made it easier to get to and from Claire's house without being seen."

She saw Sylar nod, his long fingers tapping absent-mindedly on the arm of the chair. "Are you retaliating?" He asked, and she saw Peter's brows raise slightly as he shrugged his shoulders.

"Right now, the focus is just staying alive and unseen," He said, a frown on his lips. "More specials have been showing up, asking for help. Families, even. We've had our hands full just trying to help as many as we can. Still, there have been….complications."

Claire found her eyes drifting to the scar that sliced across her uncle's face, feeling somehow responsible. If she had been here, she could have protected him, healed him. She saw Sylar's eyes follow the same path, and Peter smirked slightly, almost bitterly.

"Just a small price to pay," Was all he said, and surprisingly, Sylar nodded. Silence fell, and Claire turned back to the entryway, her back still pressed against the wall. She let out a long breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, turning to show herself, when she heard Peter speak again.

"Thank you for bringing Claire home safely."

"I wasn't lying before. She was the one who freed me. If it weren't for her, I'd still be strapped to a bed in Pennsylvania."

Claire frowned, staring ahead into the darkness, unsure what Sylar's game was. Why would he say those things to Peter? Why wasn't he boasting of his strengths, putting down her weaknesses?

"I meant to ask earlier, but it didn't seem right. Gabriel, what happened there?" Peter asked. When only silence met her ears, she heard him shift his weight, sighing.

"You don't have to tell me. I just want to know if it's possible to help anyone else trapped there. It would be something for us to look into, if it's at all possible to free them."

The thought sent a chill down Claire's spine; she didn't want her uncle anywhere near the hellhole, not when they could strap him down and strip him of his power, take away the spark that he somehow had held onto all this time. She felt a strange sense of relief when Sylar spoke, ignoring the way her stomach turned at the thought that she was grateful for it.

"It's too dangerous, Peter," He said. "The only reason we escaped was that the generators went out. I think a special – someone with a power like Elle's – shut it down when they were…with her. There are mechanical locks, armed guards, and sentries. It's surrounded by open field; they'd see you coming from a mile away."

"Not if I flew," Peter mused quietly, and Sylar spoke up once more.

"It's too dangerous," He repeated, and she let out a long breath when Peter voiced his assent.

"Maybe," He allowed, and a longer silence fell. To Claire it felt awkward, full of unspoken words and hidden resentment, but they seemed almost comfortable with it.

"Gabriel," Peter began, and she hated the way the name sounded coming from Peter's mouth. "What did they-" He paused, as though gathering his courage. "What did they do to Claire? Do you know?"

She felt a shiver run down her spine as she thought again of the night at the farmhouse, reliving everything again in a single moment as Sylar invaded her mind once more, right before he tried to cut her open again. She waited for him to show Peter, to humiliate and degrade her all over again, but he was silent.

"It's not my place to say," Sylar said softly, and she blinked in surprise. "When we were traveling here, I accidentally-I let my curiosity get the best of me," He said, and had it been anyone else, Claire would have sworn she heard remorse in his voice. "I used my ability. I touched her, saw her memories. They weren't mine to see. You should ask her yourself."

Claire was silent, thinking of the night Sylar spoke of, the way it felt to be helpless once more as the pain exploded behind her eyes, her skin splitting down to the bone and through it as he began to slice her skull once more. She didn't hear the next few words exchanged between the two men, pulling herself back only when she heard her name spoken.

"I almost did it again, Peter," Sylar admitted, and she stood up straighter, allowing herself to peer around the corner once more. Sylar was still sitting on the armchair, his hands folded together in his lap, almost like a child. "I almost took her ability by force."

She stared at Peter, uncaring any longer if he turned and saw her. He was silent, and she saw his hands clench slightly at his sides, though he tried to hide it from Sylar. She expected anger of some sort; she didn't want him to fight her battles for her, though she expected him to try. That was just who Peter was; he always tried to protect everyone, even at his own expense. She found her eyes trailing the path of the scar on his face, feeling she already knew how it had gotten there. He had told her before that he needed her to stay 'innocent', that he wanted to protect her, even if she insisted she didn't need it. But now-

"It's not me you need to explain yourself to," Peter said tightly, and Sylar sighed.

"She won't listen to me," He said. "She still thinks of me as The Boogeyman. Not that I can really blame her," He added, and she felt her frown deepen at the apparent sincerity in his voice. When Peter was silent, Sylar stood.

"I'll try tomorrow," He said simply, nodding at Peter as he passed by him, heading to the other small alcove where Peter's bedroom lay. Claire remained where she was for a few moments as Peter set out a pillow and blanket for himself, stepping out of the entryway only as he went to turn off the lamp.

His eyes looked up quickly, his body tense, and she waited until he relaxed before stepping closer.

"Claire," He said, and she nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind her hear. "You cut your hair," He noted with surprise, and she nodded once more.

"It was tangled," She explained, sitting on the other end of the couch from him, refusing to take the chair that Sylar had just vacated. "I'm sorry I fell asleep," She said, watching him as he sat back down next to her and shook his head. "How long have I been in bed?" She asked.

"Around six hours," Peter said, a small smile on his lips as she opened her mouth to apologize once more. "Claire, it's fine. I didn't expect you to entertain me. You needed the rest; you already look better."

She suspected he was just being generous, but nodded anyways, smiling slightly as he reached out and placed his hand over hers. His was warm, easily encasing her own, his fingers wrapping around to meet her own. She leaned into him, her head resting on his shoulder as he wrapped his other arm around her. She could hear the sound of his heart beating, and unlike when she had heard Sylar's, it brought her a strange sense of comfort. Peter was alive; goodness was alive, and the world would continue to turn, no matter what else came their way.

But evil was still alive, too. She found her eyes wandering to the armchair that Sylar had vacated only moments before, unable to stop her muscles from tensing at the thought of him in the next room. She felt Peter shift s lightly, turned her face up to look at him and the frown he now presented.

"Claire," He said softly, and part of her wondered if it was for her benefit or Sylar's that he kept so quiet. "It would be stupid to ask if you were alright, wouldn't it." It wasn't a question, and she didn't answer. She turned her face away from his, sitting up straight and releasing her hand from his hold, rolling her shoulders in a sad attempt to extricate herself from his embrace. She hated the thought of his hands comforting Sylar, that the same person she allowed herself to rely on was the same one that the demon from her nightmares came to as well.

Her stomach growled, and though she opened her mouth to ask if he had anything to eat, something else entirely escaped her lips.

"Why don't you kill him?"

She saw Peter turn to her out of the corner of her eyes, though she didn't turn to him. She pressed her lips together tightly, refusing to allow herself to yell, to demand an explanation. She bit down hard on her lip when he sighed, as though she were a child that he had explained the same thing to a million times.

"He's different, Claire," he said softly, and she shook her head.

"He's _not_," She insisted. "He's the same psychopath he was two years ago. He tried to take my ability again, Peter. Physically and mentally." She saw him perk up slightly at the mention of empathy, but she ignored it, finally turning to face him.

"Peter, how can you look him in the eyes after everything he's done?" She asked, for what felt like the thousandth time. And she had asked before; almost every time she saw her uncle after the carnival she had found the same words, the same demand for explanations, on her tongue. Even though she often managed to swallow them down, it still felt as though she were hugging a stranger when she saw Peter, someone who would turn his back on his family for the sake of a stranger who had nearly torn them all apart.

"Claire, he wants to change," Peter tried again, but she cut him off before he could continue

"He killed Nathan!" she shouted, no longer caring if Sylar could hear or not. He knew how much she hated him; it wouldn't kill him to hear it. "He murdered your _brother_, my _father_, and you look at him like he's your best friend! You give up your bed to him, when he would just as soon kill both of us just for the hell of it, just for our abilities!" She saw Peter open his mouth, but she refused to let him get in a single word. She knew that everything she was saying he had heard before; she knew that already he was ready to repeat the same things as well, and yet some part of her believed that if she could just make him _listen_, then he would understand, would see what she did: that Sylar was just as dangerous as he'd ever been.

"He took away both of my birth parents as soon as I found them," She said, her voice surprisingly level. "He broke into my home and attacked me, Peter. He cut open my head and philosophized while he dug out my ability, left me without the capacity for pain. He took away my _humanity_, and you would give him the chance to do it again?" She demanded. "I love you, Peter. I love you so much, but I can't stand to see him here. I can't sleep knowing he's just down the hall. I spent hours in the shower today trying to scrub off every reminder of him touching me in the past month. It makes me sick to think that I'm the one who let him out of that hellhole we were in. I should have left him to rot, but that's on me. Now I'm responsible for everything he does. But I can't stay here, not with him. I'm sorry."

The words came out in a rush near the end, and she was somewhat surprised at the vehemence of her own tone once she finished, her chest heaving slightly as her body slowly calmed itself. Peter was looking at her with a strange mixture of pity and guilt in his eyes, both of which made her hate herself for ever opening her mouth.

"Claire," he said, and this time she was silent. "Claire," he began again, leaning forward towards her, the desperation in his tone catching her off guard. "Please, try to listen to me. Just this once, _hear _me." She was silent, forcing herself to meet his eyes, hating the pain she saw there and knowing that she had somehow caused it.

"If you think I don't still think about what Sylar did to my brother, you're wrong," he said. "Nathan wasn't just my brother. He was my best friend. He was my other half, Claire. He was always there for me; he always tried to be, at least, and what more could I ask him for?" She was silent, and he continued. "I loved Nathan. I still do love Nathan. I felt like I was betraying him by letting myself forgive Sylar, that I was tarnishing his memory. Isn't that what you feel, Claire? That you'd be betraying Meredith and Nathan by even considering the idea that he's changed?" She thought of Sylar's words in the car soon after their escape, feeling her stomach turn slightly both at their similarity and the truth underlying both.

"It took me so long, years, to realize that I wasn't. Forgiving Sylar didn't make me a traitor, Claire. It made me stronger. By seeing his humanity, I found my own. Hatred burns you from the inside out. It's a poison, and I was sick of killing myself. I have to believe that Nathan would have understood that, would have wanted me to be as happy as I could be." He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she resisted the urge to move. "I know that he hurt you. I wanted to kill the bastard for so long. But Claire, I spent five years trapped inside his mind, his worst nightmare. I know it's hard to understand, but that time was as real for me as this moment is now. His worst nightmare was being alone. He wanted to change to avoid that fate, but I know it was also for himself. Didn't he try it before, not long after he hurt you?" Claire remembered how it felt to hold onto Sylar's hand, hating herself for relying on him to save her life from the vortex beneath her feet. "I know he screwed up, but he's human. As much as you might like to think otherwise, he is. We talked a lot in those five years. He told me about visiting you at college, that you said his abilities might have eaten away at what was left of his humanity. You set him on this path, Claire. Indirectly and inadvertently, sure, but you _helped_ him."

Claire shook her head slightly, her stomach turning violently. It seemed so wrong, to even consider that she had had some hand in his supposed transformation. How could she have helped him with something she didn't even believe him capable of?

"But that's all just his word," She said softly, and Peter sighed, shaking his head.

"Claire," He said quietly, and something about the way he said her name made her quiet. "When I had Hiro's power, I went to the future. This is going to sound crazy, but I took myself there. Future-me, that is." Claire didn't realize she was looking at him strangely until he laughed, somewhat hysterically. "I visited Sylar. I obtained his ability. I needed it, to figure out how to stop the future from coming true. It was all going to hell, Claire, but that ability-" he paused, and she was silent, her mind spinning too fast for her to follow. "It was beautiful. I could see everything, insdie and out. I could watch the inner workings of a person's mind, of a machine, of a watch. I heard it all, and I felt so-in control. But that beauty came with a price, Claire. I felt The Hunger, too."

Claire didn't understand, couldn't. How could her uncle have obtained the ability that had supposedly led to Sylar's murderous sprees? Peter was so inherently different from Sylar that the idea that they could have shared anything seemed incredibly perverted and fundamentally _wrong_.

"I needed to know how these abilities worked," Peter continued quietly, and she forced herself to focus on him, hating the pain in his voice as he spoke. "I couldn't focus on anything else. I needed it like you need air. I can't explain it, but—" He paused once more, and when he looked at her again, she heard his voice crack. "I killed Nathan, in that future. I needed to understand him, had to find out what was going on inside his head. It wasn't even about abilities at that point, and I doubt it was for Sylar all the time, either. It was lust, Claire, and I gave in. When I came back to the present, I almost killed my mother for the same reason. I didn't want to have to tell you this, to have you look at me the way you are now, like you don't even recognize me anymore." She quickly tried to smooth her features over, but he just shook his head.

"That's part of why I can forgive him, Claire," He said. "I understand what it's like to have that hunger, that urge to understand every integral piece of the people and things around you. I gave into it myself, killed my own brother in a future that, thank God, didn't come to pass. How can I fault Sylar for the same damn thing I did?" He demanded, and he sounded so incredibly desperate, so unlike the strong man he usually made himself out to be, that Claire felt her chest constrict. She didn't think as she reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly as he continued. "I did control the hunger after that, but it was hardest thing I've ever had to do, Claire. It was taken from me when my father took my abilities. I don't have it anymore, but Gabriel—Sylar," He amended, when she frowned. "Does. It's something he has to deal with every day, and sometimes I wonder how he hasn't killed everyone he's come in contact with. He's the strongest man I know, and I do forgive him. I forgive him because he's changed, Claire, and he keeps trying to. If he was still out there killing innocents, do you think I would let him in my home?" She was silent, and he sighed, taking his hand back gently.

"I understood him, Claire. I empathized with him," He said softly. "That's why I forgave him. That's why I forgive him every day."

Claire was silent. She thought back to the night Sylar had tried to enter her mind, the night she had become him, if only for a few moments. She remembered leaning over a watch, her back cramped and eyes narrowed at the small cogs and pieces in front of her, the desire to understand them, and shivered.

_ 'That it's okay to just be a normal watchmaker. Can't you just tell me that's enough?'_

His mother had never been happy with him, even when he was content with himself. A disapproving mother was something Peter and Sylar had in common, Claire realized distantly. Though where Peter had done what made him happy, Sylar had tried to please his mother, his family. He wanted to be special, and though he already was, he found a way to be even more special. She could feel the noose around her own neck, the surprise as it fell away, the small relief and large disappointment at the realization that her life hadn't ended. She could feel the guilt, the hatred and anger directed at herself, and though she didn't feel Sylar in her mind, she forced herself to turn away from these thoughts.

Peter was looking at her almost expectantly, though she didn't know what he wanted. For her to say she understood? That she thought no differently of Peter after what he'd told her? She shook her head slowly; Peter was nothing like Sylar. He wasn't. He had never technically killed anyone, not in this timeline, not in this life. He hadn't. He wouldn't.

_ 'He doesn't have the hunger anymore,'_ a voice inside of her whispered, and she shook her head. The hunger may have contributed to Sylar's actions, but it didn't explain them, nor did it excuse them. Peter had had the strength to control it, at least enough. Sylar hadn't.

"No, he didn't," Peter said, and she flushed slightly as she realized she had spoken aloud. "But he's only human."

"It's not an excuse," She whispered, and he nodded, infuriatingly calm.

"No, it's not," Peter agreed, and she shook her head once more, ignoring the tears of frustration pricking at the back of her eyes.

"I have to go to bed," She intoned flatly, any hunger for food forgotten. She felt Peter's hand on her arm as she stood up, though it quickly fell away as she stepped away from the couch. She barely heard his whispered 'goodnight' as she made her way back down the hall to the guest room, lying down on the bed in silence.

She was completely unsurprised when the sun rose to find her wide-awake, still in the same position she'd lain down in hours before.

_**To be continued.**_


	14. Remembering

Gabriel dreamt of blood.

He was wading through it, the smell thick in his nose as it soaked through his jeans and into his skin, to his bones, mixing with his own. He could taste the copper on his tongue, gagging slightly as it rose to his calves, his knees, though still he could not find the source.

The first body he saw was Elle's. She was hanging by a noose from a building, the steady 'drip' of blood from her sawed-off skull adding to the sea that she was blissfully unaware of beneath her feet. Her eyes were open, dead and glazed over, and they followed him as he went, her dry and cracked lips able only to whisper a single word as he passed by.

_ "Murderer."_

The word followed him like a chain as he trudged through the sea that had covered New York City, the site of most of his crimes. Isaac Mendez stood in the spreading pool, his eyes glazed over white as he painted on the side of a building, the top of his head missing and blood spilling out. As Gabriel passed, he caught a glimpse of the picture he was painting. He saw himself lying on the floor, murdered in the same way he'd killed so many, his brain exposed and blood smeared across the bricks. A shiver raced down his spine as he turned away, only to find himself face-to-face with Virginia Gray.

The pair of scissors he'd used to take her life were still sticking out of her chest, her pale hands wrapped pitifully tight around it as she attempted to free herself.

_"You could have been anything,"_ she whispered, and he felt his eyes widen as she tugged harder on the scissors, her face contorting in pain. _"President, even. But you had to waste your potential, didn't you?"_ She demanded, and suddenly she wasn't weak; her eyes were ablaze with something he couldn't identify, the same flame he'd seen burn so brightly throughout his childhood as he strove to please her time and time again, somehow always falling short. _"You're just as worthless as your father was. We should never have taken you from his brother. You've always been a disappointment, Gabriel, ever since the day we took you into our home."_

He found himself speechless. He'd prided himself on his quick tongue, his ability to turn any conversation or argument around on the person speaking to him, but suddenly he was a child again, being scolded by his mother for some wrong. Virginia Gray finally pulled the scissors from her chest, gasping in pain as she fell back into the sea of blood, unable to hear Gabriel's screams as he knelt down and searched for her, nearly drowning himself.

A hand pulled him roughly to his feet, and he found himself face-to-face with Samson Gray, his biological father and potential future.

_"You're just as bad as me,"_ He hissed, his breathing impaired by the oxygen tank he still carted around. _"Stop fooling yourself with these notions of change, of 'goodness'. You can never change. You'll die old and alone, just like me."_

And suddenly it wasn't his father whose face he saw, but Hiro Nakamura's, his eyes somehow sad even as he delivered the blow that would never truly heal.

_ "You'll die alone. No one will mourn your death. No one will shed a tear. No one. I wish I could change fate, but you must go on your path."_

The blood rose to his waist, and Gabriel hurried on, searching for some sort of high ground, anything to save him from the flood. He tried to fly, but he couldn't connect with the part of himself that held his ability. Panic encroached his chest, making it harder to breathe as he passed grisly scene after grisly scene, every person he had ever hurt. Bob Bishop, Alejandro Herrera, Nathan Petrelli, Meredith Gordon, Zane Taylor, Jackie Wilcox, Chandra Suresh, and of course, Brian Davis. The faces kept coming, each more familiar than the last, until he found himself staring at Molly Walker, her eyes filled with tears as she recounted the murder of her parents.

_"You're a monster,"_ She whispered, and the words fell from his lips without a second thought.

_"I'm sorry,"_ he said, and she shook her head.

_"I'll never forgive you,"_ She said quietly as the blood rose above her head, reaching his chest. It didn't stop; he felt it reach his chin, his stomach churning as some made its way into his mouth, choking him as he struggled to push off of the ground, to float. Something held him down, and though he couldn't see through the crimson sea, he knew somehow that it was the hands of all of his victims, come together at last in their death to take revenge on the man who had taken life away from them.

He took a deep breath, though once the blood rose above his nose, he knew it didn't matter. He opened his eyes as his lungs finally gave in, sinking to the bottom, the gravel rising to meet him and knock the last of the breath from his lungs.

The last face he saw was a certain blonde cheerleader, smiling as he drowned.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

The dream changed.

He had often had dreams where he was floating far outside his body, watching from a distance as events unfolded. He'd always felt detached, distant, disconnected; this was different.

He moved his finger slowly, watching the blood spring up from the man's forehead, reveling in the screams that he tore from his lips with his ministrations. He was like the little boy who pulled the legs off of bugs, turning them under magnifying glasses until the sun set them on fire, smiling with amusement and power as they twitched and burned out. This was so much more satisfying than that; with people, he could see the work he had wrought, feel the power that came from taking away all of someone else's. It was intoxicating, addicting; he felt a smile tug on his lips as the blood spread across the floor at his feet, soaking through to his skin as he knelt down, searching for the power he had so desperately sought after.

The shudder of relief he experienced as the power made its way into his body was almost sexual; he could feel it spreading throughout his bones, making its way to his own brain, where he reached for it with only a thought. It felt natural, right, to access this man's ability. Surely he, Sylar, would put it to far better use than the pathetic creature at his feet ever could. So many of them saw their gifts as curses; in a way, he was simply lifting a burden off their shoulders. They didn't deserve them anyways.

God, why had he ever stopped?

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

Gabriel awoke with a start, his eyes wide as he scanned the room, searching for blood or bodies. He tore the sheets away from his body, letting out a long breath when he found no blood on his person. It took a moment for his heartbeat to return to normal, his finger twitching with the muscle memory of something he'd vowed to never do again.

He stood slowly, somehow still sweating despite the chill in the air. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table, somewhat surprised to find that it was already 7 a.m. He'd slept for hours, a nice change in pace from the minutes caught every other-night that he had grown accustomed to. Peter had offered to let him borrow some clothes, though Gabriel knew that he was too tall to fit into anything he owned. He would have to buy a few outfits later; his clothes were still gritty from the nights spent sleeping on the pavement.

He could hear voices coming from the kitchen as he opened the bedroom door, walking into the living room. He heard Claire laugh, and suddenly felt a strange sense of guilt as he stepped into the room, the smile immediately wiped from her face.

"Good morning," He said, and Peter turned from his spot near the sink, nodding and gesturing towards the bowl and spoon set out on the table.

"Good morning, Gabriel," He said, and Gabriel couldn't help but notice the way Claire tightened her grip on her spoon at the words. "I left some cereal out for you. I already ate a few hours ago. The milk is in the fridge," he added, and Gabriel nodded, offering him a small but genuine smile.

"Thank you," he said, taking the milk from the fridge before pouring himself a bowl of cereal, electing to stand rather than join Claire at the rather small table. He hadn't had a normal breakfast in years, and his stomach protested even as he took small bites. He put the bowl down after a few minutes of silence, waiting until Peter finished rinsing dishes and turned around, looking from him to Claire in turn.

"I have to go meet the others today," Peter said simply, apparently unwilling to make small talk. "We try to meet as often as we can. There's an abandoned warehouse we use; a sort of home base," he explained. "It's far from here," he added, though didn't seem eager to disclose any more information, causing Gabriel to raise his brows slightly. "Hiro usually takes care of transportation, but since I've been borrowing his ability recently, I can get myself there."

Gabriel was silent as Peter spoke, glancing at Claire from the corner of his eyes. She had the same strange look in her eyes that she had the day before upon finding her home empty and nearly destroyed. It had been his fault; he'd planted the seed of revenge in her mind, and it was quickly growing, a notion that was vaguely unsettling. He turned back to Peter when he continued, a small frown tugging on his lips.

"You two are welcome to come with me," Peter continued, glancing at Claire. "Your abilities can certainly help. Especially yours, Claire," he said, causing her to sit up straighter in her seat. "You could help us to heal those they've hurt, if you're up for it."

Gabriel was unsurprised when she nodded, her face a determined mask. He saw Peter's slight frown, mirroring his own, though wondered what was troubling him.

"Alright, then," He said, turning next to Gabriel, who met his eyes and nodded in answer to his unspoken question.

"We'll head out after breakfast."

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

Gabriel pulled Peter aside once Claire had left the kitchen, saying she needed to get ready. He waited until he heard the bedroom door close behind her before turning back to Peter, unsurprised to find the other man already starting at him, as though waiting for his words.

"They're going to see me as The Boogeyman," He said simply, the words tasting somewhat bitter on his tongue. Hiro Nakamura would only remember all the evil he had done in the past, as would any others who had seen his face before. He didn't expect anything less from them, but something about the thought of walking willingly into a room full of people fully prepared to kill him where he stood was vaguely unsettling, especially considering his dream from the night before. It would be far too easy to lose control.

"I'll make sure that doesn't happen," Peter said, and it took Gabriel a moment to remember that Peter was not holding Matt Parkman's ability. He felt a strange combination of comfort and unease at the idea that Peter Petrelli knew him well enough to be able to deduce his thoughts simply by looking at his face.

Another thought came to him, and he spoke before he could think better of it.

"Matt Parkman," He began, then paused, remembering their last encounter two years ago. To say it had been ugly would have been a gross understatement. "Is he there?" He asked, struggling to keep his features neutral, a feat he was ordinarily adept at. Perhaps two years out of practice was too much.

"I don't know," Peter said, glancing towards the living room, where Claire was now tying her shoes. "He took custody of Molly Walker again, so he tries to stay out of the way as much as possible. To keep her safe."

That was what he'd been fearing. He saw the young girl's face from his nightmare the previous night, the fear and resentment and hatred, and quickly turned away, nodding.

"Alright," He said simply, meeting Claire's eyes as she looked up, expecting to see the same resentment and hatred he always had. She seemed to be looking past him instead, and he felt vaguely unsettled as he walked to the front door, slipping on his own shoes before walking back to Peter, who had now been joined by Claire. He closed his eyes when Peter's hand closed over his shoulder, and when he opened them, they were somewhere else.

It took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the dim lighting. They were standing in a small office, or what had once been an office. It seemed to be some sort of storage area now; boxes were stacked in the far corner, a file cabinet pressed against the opposite wall. There was a small, dingy window that looked out onto the broad first floor, abandoned and rusted machinery scattered on the floor where the previous owners had apparently given up moving out.

"Homey," Claire observed, and he felt the corner of his lip turn up slightly in amusement as Peter nodded.

"We're not too picky," He said, stepping towards the door, which creaked slightly on its rusty hinges as he pushed it open. "There's a bigger room downstairs. I think it was some sort of break room at one point. That's where we meet." He held the door open for Claire, waiting until Gabriel stepped through to let it fall closed behind them.

"Follow me," He said simply, and Gabriel waited until Claire had taken the first step before falling in behind them.

He didn't see this going well. Part of him thought it would be far better if he had stayed in hiding, at Peter's apartment. Another part, however, one that was much stronger, longed to be a part of something again; it wanted to be a hero again. He had never felt so alive or good about himself as he had at the moment he saved Emma at the carnival; it was the only time had been sure that what he was doing was right. And what was wrong with trying to right wrongs? He set his jaw, reaching far inside himself for the stoicism he had so often employed in the past. He wouldn't be chased out; this was his fight, too, whether or not the others agreed. They had a common enemy, and this time, it wasn't him.

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Though he was the last to step into the room, every eye seemed to turn to him at once. Gabriel paused in his stride, his gaze passing quickly over every face in the room, both familiar and foreign.

Hiro Nakamura, who had just stepped forward with a loud exclamation of 'Cheerleader!' had paused, his eyes locked onto Gabriel's, who didn't waver.

"Brain man," He said softly.

Gabriel stiffened slightly and turned towards Peter, who was looking at the others in the room. He recognized Micah, two years older and yet as small as ever, standing under the protective arm of another older teenager. Ando and several of Samuel's troop were scattered among the room, though the ringleader himself was absent. He had only taken one step farther into the room when he was thrown back against the wall, knocking the breath from his lungs as his head hit the wall with a sickening thud.

"You bastard," Mohinder growled, pressing him into the concrete with the side of his arm, completely at ease. "How dare you show your face here?!" He demanded, pressing harder, cutting into his windpipe. Gabriel saw black spots dancing in the edges of vision, and struggled to resist the urge to throw the other man across the room and kill him where he stood.

A moment later his feet touched the floor, air filling his lungs in a rush as he gasped, his vision adjusting to see Peter, one hand on Mohinder's shoulder a few feet away.

"Gabriel isn't the enemy," Peter said simply, his voice strong and sure. "We all know who the enemy is, and we don't need a civil war going on in our own ranks. If you trust me, then trust this: He's not Sylar anymore. He's here to help, and we all know that we can use it."

There was silence, the only sound the heavy rise and fall of Dr. Suresh's chest as he tried to calm himself. Gabriel took a step back, closing his eyes in an attempt to rid himself of the image of splitting open the man's skull and taking what he had just threatened him with. He didn't open them when Peter began to speak again, throwing around names and places he'd never heard of, discussions ranging from sightings to captures to threats.

He stayed in the far corner while the others spoke, though eh noticed several times as pairs of eyes made their way to his figure, as though to make sure he hadn't moved. Every time he shifted his weight even slightly someone flinched, taking an indiscreet step to the side, away from him. Part of him was amused, though most was annoyed as time dragged on. Eventually most turned away from him, turning him into just another unimportant fixture of the room. It was Dr. Suresh whose eyes he could feel on him even when he turned away, crossing his arms over his chest and waiting for Peter to speak again, distancing himself from his environment.

"I think it's time we made an offensive move."

Gabriel frowned, opening his eyes and looking at Peter. He was standing near the door, his arms folded across his chest, taking in the several reactions at once. There were many objections, violent and vehement words, and still Peter stood still, waiting for the chaos to subside.

"Gabriel and Claire were being held in a hospital in Pennsylvania," He continued, his voice loud and sure over the discontented mass. "We already knew about this place, and many like it. I've been thinking that we should do something about it for a long time, but it would have been suicide. Now, though, we have a way in. We have inside information; we have guides."

Gabriel glanced at Claire, who had stiffened considerably, her hands clenched into fists, though she tried to hide them behind her back. He quickly looked away when she met his eyes, turning instead to Peter, who was now looking at him.

"Gabriel. How much do you remember about the layout of the hospital?" He asked, and Gabriel frowned, feeling a small spark of anger ignite in the pit of his stomach. He'd already told Peter that this was a suicide mission, a rash move that would only get him killed. Obviously that didn't matter to him.

"Enough," He answered simply, feeling every pair of eyes in the room turn to him. It made his skin crawl uncomfortably, and he returned the gaze directly until they looked away, shifting uncomfortably. And it was true; he did remember the hospital well enough. Though he'd spent a great deal of time in an induced coma, Matt's ability hadn't completely turned off. He figured he'd obtained it back on the night of the carnival, when Matt had looked into his head to see if he was genuine about his words. He hadn't realized it until weeks later when it manifested, and had tried not to use it; he still hadn't wanted to lose his newfound humanity to a lust for abilities, and reading people's minds was far too tempting. Still, he'd been able to connect with the orderlies who filed into and out of his room each day, the paths they were planning to take, the stray thoughts as they punched numbers into keypads outside doors. It was hard to tell how much was real and how much was his imagination, though as he and Claire had made their way out that night that felt so long ago, he'd been sure of the steps he was taking; he'd taken them before, with every person who stepped into or out of his room.

"Shouldn't we be focusing on ourselves right now?" A woman asked. Gabriel didn't recognize her; she had her arm around a young girl's shoulder, encircling her protectively. "We're still not safe; how can we rescue anyone else?"

There was a soft murmur of agreement, but Peter spoke before anyone else had the chance.

"I'm not going to ask anyone to do something they don't want to," He said, glancing around the room. "I'm just asking that you think about this, and those who decide they want to help can. I know we've all lost people, but this could be a chance to reunite other families, to make sure that they don't have to go through the same pain." He paused, looking back at Gabriel, who stood up straight, nodding in answer to his unspoken question.

"Meet back here tomorrow if you decide you want to help," Peter said simply, and turned out of the room without another word.

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"Peter, you're going to get yourself killed!"

Gabriel could hear the conversation in the living room perfectly clear, though so far most of it had consisted of Claire yelling at her uncle, refusing to let him get in a word.

"Claire, I told you-"

"You have no idea what it's like there!" She interrupted, and Gabriel glanced into the living room from his spot in the kitchen, a frown on his lips. "If you get caught, and you will, they'll never let you go. They'll torture you, they'll maim you, they'll-" She paused, having caught Gabriel's eye, and he felt his frown deepen as she gestured at him.

"If you don't believe me, ask your friend," She said, a fair amount of venom lacing her words. Gabriel took a single step into the room, meeting Peter's gaze, his long fingers encircling the mug he held in his hands tightly. He'd already made his position on Peter's idea clear the night before; anything he said now would just be repetition, and he knew that it would make no difference once Peter had made his mind up.

And so he was silent, feeling Claire's stare harden until she groaned, throwing her hands up and taking a step back.

"The one damn time you could have made yourself useful," She said quietly, turning her back and making her way to the guest room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

"Emma's there."

For a moment Gabriel wasn't sure if the words he'd heard had been spoken aloud or passed telepathically, though it didn't matter. His eyes snapped quickly to Peter's slumped form on the couch, his head in his hands, eyes closed. Gabriel wasn't sure if it was for Peter or for the woman who had inadvertently set him on the right path, but he felt a sudden surge of protectiveness, of adrenaline; of purpose.

"I don't want to put everyone at risk for a personal venture," Peter said softly, glancing up at Gabriel through a tangle of brown hair. "I had been thinking about making a move like this for a long time. But when I found out that's where Emma was-" He trailed off, silence quickly filling the air between them as Gabriel nodded, his jaw set.

"I understand," he said, and felt something in the air between them, a connection being forged between two people who had barely held onto remnants of years spent together. Hiro Nakamura's ability flooded his brain, every synapse firing at once, coming together to form an intricate web of delicate pieces and parts. He closed his eyes, letting out a long breath as it settled into place, fitting comfortably and perfectly in the back of his mind, along with the others.

"Hold onto that one," Peter said quietly, and he quickly opened his eyes. "You'll need it."

_**Note:**_ Sorry I took so long to update! I had writer's block, and I feel like it showed.


	15. Grieve

Claire dreamt of blue eyes.

She woke with a start, her eyes wide and heart pounding, adrenaline waking her limbs before her mind even realized it was no longer dreaming. She glanced around the room, forcing herself to relax, letting out a long breath that stirred the hair hanging in front of her eyes. She moved to pull it back into a ponytail, only to realize that she had cut it off two nights before.

The clock hanging on the wall read 10:00. She tugged the curtains on the window over the bed open, flinching slightly at the harsh sunlight that spilled in, waiting until her eyes adjusted before standing up, stretching her arms high above her head.

She felt strangely heavy as she dug through the dresser, not even bothering to look at what she chose to wear before changing into it. She couldn't deny the guilt she felt for yelling at Peter the night before, but he had to understand what a mistake he was making. But she knew her uncle; he wouldn't let innocent people suffer while he still had breath in his body. He was noble; but this time, it was going to get him killed.

She stiffened slightly, running a comb through her hair as she straightened out her shirt. She wouldn't let that happen; if he insisted on doing this, then she would never leave his side. She would make sure he took her ability; she wouldn't let him get hurt.

Sylar was already in the living room when she walked out, and she felt a shiver run down her spine as she walked past him, peering into the kitchen only to find it empty.

"Where's Peter?" She asked, turning back to Sylar, who had moved closer to her in the brief moment she'd turned around. She ignored the chill that ran through her body as he stepped closer, nodding.

"He already went to meet them," He said, walking over to the hook by the door and pulling his jacket off. "He told me to wait for you to wake up and then bring you."

Claire felt a frown tug on her lips at his words. "When did you get Hiro's ability?" She demanded, and he sighed slightly, as though expecting this reaction. She felt her hands clench into fists at her sides as he turned back to her, tugging his jacket on as he spoke.

"From Peter," He said simply, and part of her expected to turn and find her uncle's dead body lying on the kitchen floor, his blood spilling through the cracks in the linoleum. She felt a chill run down her spine as she realized he'd been sitting in the living room waiting for her to wake up for who knew how long, that she had been left alone with him again.

Anger quickly warmed her body, and she just shook her head, ignoring his words as he asked if she wanted to eat breakfast first.

"Let's just go," She snapped, digging deep within herself for the patience not to scream when he sighed once more. She closed her eyes when he placed his hand on her shoulder, opening them again when he released her, taking a moment to adjust to her new surroundings. They were on the main floor of the warehouse, the smell of must hanging heavy in the air as she took a step away from Sylar, following the sounds of voices to the same room they'd met in the previous day.

Claire was unsure what she had been expecting. She didn't truly believe that anyone would willingly offer themselves up to death, and yet the room was nearly full. The woman who had spoken the previous day was absent, as was her daughter, though they were nearly the only ones. She offered Hiro a half-hearted smile when he waved at her, as excitable as ever, though the smile quickly left his face as Sylar stepped into the room behind her like a shadow.

She stepped to the side, keeping him within her view as he made his way to the corner, folding his arms over his chest and leaning against the wall. She wondered if he knew how unnerving it was when he stood like that; he reminded her of a wax figure in a museum, unsettling and disturbing and constantly about to move.

It took her a moment to realize that silence had fallen; Peter, who was standing in the back, was looking at her, his face unreadable as he folded his arms, nodding at the table in front of him. She took a few steps towards him, frowning as she felt every pair of eyes in the room turn to her, including Sylar's. She stopped in front of her uncle, knowing what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth.

"Will you help?" He asked simply, and she nodded, her jaw set.

"Yes," She said, and he smiled.

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The plan was simple, in theory. She and Sylar had realized that the storm wasn't what had taken out the power that night a month ago; it was a special who had the power of electricity at her fingertips, shorting the wires and causing everything to shut down. There was one person within Peter's ranks who held that same ability; her name was Whitney, and she was 13 years old. Claire might have called it divine intervention, had she still believed in such things.

Still, it seemed beyond reckless to send someone so young into the middle of a melee that could, and most likely would, end with bloodshed on both sides. The young girl was adamant, however. Her father had been taken by a raid several months ago, and she'd been staying with another family whom Peter had been in contact with. Still, she wasn't content to sit and wait for her father to be found, and Claire couldn't argue with her. She would have done the same.

She still worried about her own father. She wanted to find Molly Walker; she knew that Peter knew where she and Matt were staying but she also knew that it wasn't fair to drag the young girl back into the middle of the mess that she had created. Still, the thought of her father looking for her while she still searched for him brought an ache to her chest that she couldn't push away, no matter how hard she tried. She needed to know what had happened to him, no matter what the answer was. It couldn't be worse than this uncertainty.

Peter claimed that he didn't want to rush into anything, and yet he made plans to meet every other day for the next two weeks. On the third week, he said, they would make their way to the hospital. Claire sat down on a chair that she pulled into the corner, trying unsuccessfully to make herself small enough to hide from the prying and curious eyes around her. She and Sylar were the bright and shiny new toys. She'd expected them to fear him, but the resentment and blame she caught in some of their gazes directed at her brought a pang to her chest. Of course they would blame her for their predicament; it was her impulsive leap that had brought this down on them in the first place. It was the least she could do to make it right, wasn't it?

She listened in silence as Peter and the others broke everything down into the smallest possible pieces. They complied a list of those present, matching their abilities with their predetermined positions on what was quickly becoming a battleground. Those with telekinetic abilities would be placed near the front to derail any bullets or projectiles that would be fired at the rest; those with more offensive abilities would come after and beside them. Whitney, however, was their key; if she didn't make it to the generators, it wouldn't matter what they did. They'd never get far inside.

It was at this point that Peter turned to her. She met his eyes, sitting up straighter in her chair as he nodded over at Whitney, who was standing tall with her arms folded over her chest, her brows turned down slightly.

"Claire, I want you to make sure that Whitney gets to the generators," he said, and she shook her head.

"Peter, I-" She began, but he cut her off without allowing her to get in another word.

"Claire, Whitney is the key to this. We need to make sure she gets to the generators and back alive. You can't be hurt, so you're the best choice to go with and protect her. I know you can take care of yourself, and I'm hoping you'll do the same for her."

Claire was silent, ignoring the way her hands clenched into fists at her sides as she met Peter's stare, refusing to acknowledge his words. She had warned him about this entire plan, and he ignored her. She wasn't going to let him go in unprotected; and knowing him, he would refuse to take her ability in lieu of something more destructive, something he could use to fight with besides his fists or a gun. If she wasn't with him, no one would be able to protect him. He wasn't going to do it himself; he would be far too occupied with trying to protect everyone else that he would forget about himself. The image she'd had earlier of his body sprawled across the tiled floor came back to her, except this time, instead of his head being cut open, he was riddled with bullet holes in an empty field.

A shiver ran down her spine at the picture she had painted, and still Peter stared, waiting for her to relent. She knew that he wouldn't let this go, wouldn't lose face in front of the small group he'd gathered behind him; and she also knew that it wasn't her place to do so. Still, that didn't mean she had to be happy about it.

"Fine," She said through clenched teeth, ignoring the way Whitney's eyebrows rose slightly, as though personally offended. She folded her arms across her chest as Peter nodded, turning back to the sketch he had placed out in front of him, calling over someone she'd never seen before. She turned her eyes away, ignoring the several pairs she could still feel on her figure, only to find herself staring at Sylar across the room.

His face was perfectly stoic, though she thought she caught the hint of a frown on his lips as he met her gaze, holding her there without even needing to use his ability. She felt like a specimen under a microscope, exposed and on display, and forced herself to tear her eyes away. She didn't care what Peter said; she'd never be okay with Sylar in the same room.

The rest of the meeting seemed to pass quickly. People began to file out, either helped by Hiro or Peter's ability. As the numbers dwindled, she became more and more aware of Sylar's eyes watching her. She stood up quickly, taking a single step towards the door before she was stopped by a familiar face.

"Claire," Micah said, and she blinked, looking down at the younger boy. She hadn't known him well; it was mostly hearsay, though she did know of his ability. He would be an integral part of Peter's plan; if for some reason Whitney couldn't shut down the generators, they would count on him to short-circuit the technology keeping the place running.

"Yes?" She said, keeping Sylar within her view from the corner of her eye. He was leaning against the wall, no longer even bothering to hide the fact that he was watching.

"I just wanted to thank you," he said, and she stiffened slightly, frowning.

"For what?" She asked slowly, and he smiled.

"For what you did at the carnival," He said, and she opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. "I was sick of living in the shadows. I wanted so badly to do something to help, but everyone told me it was a bad idea, that it was dangerous. I wish I'd had the courage to do something like what you did."

Claire felt a pang in her chest, unmistakably guilt. She had felt the same way as he did at one point; for several years all she'd wanted was to live freely, to not have to hide the largest part of herself from the rest of the world. It was only after the fact that she realized what a mistake she'd made. She'd cost so many people their lives, their families, all for a selfish want that her father had tried to dissuade her from for years, had most likely given his life to protect.

She frowned, looking back at Micah, who was watching her with a knowing look in her eyes. Maybe she couldn't ask Molly for help, but Micah was already here. He had willingly placed himself in danger to help others, a notion she could respect. Who was to say he wouldn't help her…?

"Micah," She began, but he cut her off.

"You want me to help you find your dad," He guessed, and she felt her cheeks flush slightly. Peter had told her the young boy was a genius, but she assumed he meant with technology. She caught the hint of a smile on his lips at the look on her face, and offered him a thin one in return.

"Would you?" She asked quietly, and he nodded quickly.

"Yeah," He said, smiling now. "There's a computer upstairs. I can use that to search for recent records with his name. If you have time now," He added, and she nodded quickly.

"Yes, I do," She said, ignoring the way Sylar shifted his weight in the corner of her eye, listening. "Thank you, Micah."

The younger boy nodded, whispering something to a woman who looked to be around her own age before leading her out the door. As she passed by Sylar Claire paused, meeting his eyes.

"Tell Peter where I am," She said simply, and when he nodded she turned away, hurrying after Micah. Finally, she would have some answers.

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"He's covering his tracks," Micah said, and Claire moved her chair a bit closer, squinting slightly to see the screen clearly. The page was constantly changing as Micah sifted through thousands and thousands of transactions, documents, payments, and receipts. Her eyes couldn't keep up, and she found herself getting dizzy even trying to keep her eyes on the screen. She turned away, feeling her nails dig into the soft skin of her palm as she clenched her hands into fists, struggling to quell her growing frustration and unease.

"He's had to for 20 years," She said quietly, glancing at Micah out of the corner of her eyes. He had his own closed, his palm now pressed against the glass of the computer screen, fingers spread out as though to encompass the internet and all the information it held in its entirety.

"Is it possible that he's using an alias?" Micah asked, opening his eyes even as the screen continued to flash, sorting through piles and piles of information. Claire frowned, thinking back to the boxes of Primatech files that had always littered his home office. She'd never seen anything that would suggest an alias, though knowing her father, there were probably many things about him that she'd never find out.

"I don't know," She sighed, closing her eyes against the harsh glare of the screen, the various colors dancing on the inside of her eyelids. "He might be," She admitted, ignoring the pain as her nails gouged small crescents into her skin. If he was, she would never be able to find him.

"Maybe—" Micah began, but quickly fell silent. Claire opened her eyes. The screen had stopped flashing, stopping on a single document that took up half of the screen. She moved her chair a little closer, though Micah had moved to the side, giving her more room.

Though the logical part of her brain knew exactly what she was seeing, another part refused to accept it. Her eyes scanned the document quickly, her hands slowly unclenching at her sides as her heart began to race. She heard Micah mutter something under his breath, though it was lost in the sound of her own blood rushing in her ears.

_ Cause of death: Gunshot wound to the head_

_ Estimated time of death: 8:40 p.m., January 17_

He had died in Indiana, not long after she and Sylar had escaped. The rest of the page began to blur as she realized with a sinking feeling in her stomach that they could have passed him on their way to California. They could have crossed paths and never been the wiser. Surely he had been keeping up on the news, known that she'd escaped…maybe he had been trying to intercept her. Maybe he hadn't known.

Maybe it didn't even matter.

She'd grieved for her father once before, when she'd thought that Mohinder had taken his life. And yet she'd seen him again later, wrapped herself in his arms again, had a father once more. He always found a way back to her, no matter what the circumstances were. This was another ploy, an attempt to throw off those who would pursue him, to give him a better chance of finding her alive. Her father would never let himself get killed. He wasn't that careless.

She reached out with a trembling hand and grasped the mouse, scrolling further down the page. There was a picture at the bottom, of a pale and bloodless body lying on a slab of metal in a morgue, an angry red hole in the center of their forehead. She heard a strange sound as she flinched back, feeling Noah Bennet's cold and lifeless eyes staring back at her from the clear photograph on the screen. And yet still, a part of herself refused to listen.

"It could be fake," she whispered, but Micah shook his head.

"It's not," He said quietly. "I can trace it back to the morgue. I've seen photoshopped images, and I can't explain how I know, but-I do." She could hear the pity in his voice, and though she resented it, she felt too tired to argue. "I'm so sorry, Claire."

She didn't respond. After what felt like hours Micah left, letting the door fall closed softly behind him. Claire remained where she was, her eyes glued on the screen as she read and reread the words in front of her until terms like 'dead on arrival' and 'rigor mortis' lost all meaning. Part of her had hoped that, if she looked long enough, the file would melt away like the remnants of a nightmare. Instead, it simply became clearer.

Noah Bennet was dead.

And it was her fault.

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The first time Claire had thought her father to be dead, she'd allowed herself to grieve. She'd screamed, cried, prayed, and swore, had gone through his things and allowed herself to remember him in any way that she could. She'd had a mother and a brother to lean on for support, even if she did find herself at fault in some way. She'd scattered his ashes into the ocean and tried to let go.

This time, she couldn't bring herself to shed a single tear.

Why should she cry, she wondered. Could you cry for someone you practically murdered yourself? She'd started all of this with her impulsive and reckless decision that night at the carnival. She'd put herself and thousands of others in danger, all because of a selfish want. She'd taken back all the pain that her father had endured for her protection over the years and thrust it back in his face like an ungrateful child. She'd let them to her door. With that single leap, she'd signed so many death warrants. She didn't imagine it would have been his.

Claire turned onto her stomach, burying her face in the pillow beneath her. Sylar had found her in the upstairs office hours later and taken her back here. He'd seen the document, had told Peter what happened. Her uncle had tried to comfort her, but she refused to let him. He had bigger things to worry about than her. She refused to let herself get in the way of the plans he was so carefully laying, and after sitting outside her door for nearly an hour, he had relented.

It was nearly seven p.m. now, though to Claire it felt much later. Her entire body ached with an exhaustion that she knew wasn't physical. She couldn't bring herself to sit up, to shower, to eat. She knew how selfish she was being, but somehow she couldn't bring herself to care.

A knock on her door roused her what felt like hours later. She lifted her head slightly, turning to watch the door as the handle turned slowly. She forced herself to sit up, clutching her pillow tightly in her lap as the door swung open, words to tell Peter that she was fine already resting on the tip of her tongue.

"Claire," Sylar said, and she felt her stomach turn.

"Did Peter send you?" She asked simply, and he shook his head. He stayed in the doorway, leaning slightly against the wall as he watched her, glancing at the floor beneath his feet, as though wondering if it were wise to step further inside.

"No," He said, and gestured inside her room with a question in his eyes. She reached deep within herself for the hatred and anger his image normally evoked, searching for the will to tell him to get the hell out, but she found nothing. The realization made her more alert, her eyes narrowing slightly as she nodded, allowing him to step inside, though he left the door open.

"Then what do you want?" She asked, and he shifted his weight slightly. She thought of the man she'd seen back in the field, the simple watchmaker who was always slightly off, unsure of himself and every step he took. Gabriel Gray.

_'But this is Sylar,'_ she reminded herself, though even in her own mind the words sounded flat, a meaningless excuse for something she didn't want to examine.

"I wanted to know if you'd like to see your father."

Ah, there it was. The anger she'd been searching for rose up to meet her as she frowned, glaring at him as she sat up straight, her hands clutching the pillow in her lap tightly.

"Do you think this is funny?" She demanded, staring once again at the psychopath she'd hated and feared for years. "Get the hell out of my room!" she shouted, able to find some satisfaction in the way his eyes widened slightly.

"Claire," He began, but she cut him off.

"Fuck you," She said quietly, and he shook his head.

"I didn't word that well," He admitted, and she barely managed to bite back the sharp retort on the tip of her tongue. "I meant….Do you want to go to Indiana?"

She paused, staring uncomprehendingly at him for a moment until he continued. "Micah told me that he wasn't identified until after he was buried as a John Doe. They replaced the headstone, but he was already buried. They tried to contact his family, but your father must have done a good job hiding your family. They never found them, so he stayed buried there." He paused, as though waiting for her to speak, but she was silent. "I thought you might like to see for yourself," He finished, watching her closely. "I could take you there, if you decide that you do."

Claire hated that she was even considering his offer. He was the last person she'd want to visit her father's grave with, and yet she knew it would be unfair to ask Peter while he was busy trying to find a way to save so many others. She felt her stomach roll at the realization that part of herself felt guilty for yelling at Sylar; all it took was Meredith and Nathan's faces to chase it away.

"Okay," she said simply, forcing herself to her feet and tossing the pillow back down onto her bed. The room spun around her for a moment as she regained her balance, though as soon as it did she stepped over to him, folding her arms and waiting.

"Do you want to put on shoes or a jacket?" He suggested, and she looked down at her bare feet, feeling her cheeks flush slightly.

"No."

He shrugged, and the next time she opened her eyes, she was somewhere else entirely.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

The first thing that hit her was the rain.

It was cold enough to sting her bare arms as she took a step away from Sylar, his hand falling off her shoulder as she glanced around.

He had taken them just inside the entrance. The gates were closed behind them, late enough that a padlock had been wrapped securely around the iron bars. The cemetery itself was fairly small, though it stretched far across an empty field, the rows neatly lined up over crests and valleys. She curled her toes into the dirt beneath her feet, closing her eyes and letting out a long breath that she didn't realize she'd been holding.

She started down the first row, pausing at every headstone and reading the name carefully to herself. The rain was fairly light, though she still felt herself shivering as she walked on, leaving a clear trail of footprints in the mud forming beneath her feet. She caught a glimpse of Sylar's figure as he walked in the opposite direction, though whether he was giving her space or searching herself she was unsure. Either one seemed strange to her still.

It felt wrong, somehow, to be relieved every time she saw someone else's name carved in stone. These people had all had families, children, wives, husbands. They were mothers, brothers, and children, and yet she was_ glad_ to see their name rather than her father's. She bit down hard on her lip as she started down the next row, slowly winding her way to the back of the cemetery. Perhaps it had been a mistake after all.

She saw the picture of her father's corpse on a slab, and knew that she was only denying the inevitable.

As though to confirm her suspicions, her eyes fell onto the name of the next grave, her lips forming the name slowly as she paused in her stride, nearly slipping in the growing mud that the rain had produced.

_ 'Noah Alexander Bennet'_

His entire life had been reduced to one line of dates below his name, as though all he'd amounted to were the number of years he'd lived. There was nothing about his being a father, a husband, or a son. He was just Noah Bennet, just another body to fertilize the soil beneath her feet.

No one would know what he'd done for her. No one would know everything he'd risked and given up just to protect a daughter that wasn't even his, a baby he had adopted under duress and come to love under his own terms. No one would know how that baby depended on him every day of her life, how badly she wanted to stay a child so that he'd have someone to take care of, how ignorant she'd been of the depth of his dedication to her life and her happiness. No one would know how much that little girl loved her father.

No one knew how much she still needed him.

Her jeans were quickly soaked through as she slid to her knees in the grass, running her fingers through what was left of her hair as she stared at what was left of her father, her protector. Her hero. Though Peter had gained that title for so long, it was her father who had originated it. He was the one who'd been watching over her since the day he met her, and she was the one who'd let him down in so many ways. He'd taken a bullet for her, erased his memory for her, _died_ for her, and she'd spit on all his sacrifices by revealing herself to the world.

She ran her fingers lightly over the name inscribed on the stone, the material rough beneath her skin. She closed her eyes tightly, the sharp taste of copper strong on her tongue as she bit through her lip. Even after she'd betrayed him, even after she'd wronged him, he still came for her. She could have saved him; she could have protected him. But she hadn't.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"Claire."

She jumped, turning her head quickly when Sylar spoke. He was standing behind her, a frown evident on his lips, and she wondered how long he'd been standing there.

"What."

He was silent for a moment, following her gaze back to the grave, and suddenly she felt protective. What right did he have to be here? He'd taken away two of her parents already; he shouldn't get to see her grieve for a third. Still, the anger she'd always depended on had dwindled once more. All she could find in its place was a cold acceptance as she turned away, letting her hand fall back to her side as the rain began to beat down harder. She wrapped her arms around herself tightly, hating that her body still felt the cold even though it couldn't be harmed by it.

She felt something warm drape over her shoulders, and gripped it tightly, glancing back at Sylar. He wasn't looking at her, and she quickly turned away, sliding her arms through the sleeves of his jacket, finding a strange sort of amusement in the way they hung down past her hands. She was grateful for the warmth if she didn't think of whose skin had last touched it.

She stared at the ground underneath her for a moment, able only to see the angry red wound in the center of his forehead. Last time he'd been shot, her blood had saved him. Surely he had to have been dead after being shot in the eye….and yet it had still brought him back.

Something inside of her lit up, and she sat up straight, digging her fingers into the dirt underneath her. Maybe she still could bring him back.

"Claire, he's been dead for a month."

Claire stiffened, refusing to turn around.

"Get out of my head," She said quietly, knowing full well that he could hear her despite the rain. It was just another of his stolen abilities.

"I know that they tested it," Sylar said, speaking louder now to be heard over the increasing downpour. He knelt down next to her, though kept a wide berth between them. "When we were in Pennsylvania. I could hear their thoughts. They were testing your blood on other people, too. They found a cutoff for when it would heal them and when it wouldn't. Your father's far past it."

She felt his words like a physical blow. She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes and quickly turned her face away, refusing to let him see her so weak. His jacket felt like an extra weight on her body, and she quickly tore it off, thrusting the piece of fabric back at him and ignoring his single protest.

"Claire," He said quietly, and when she felt his hand touch her shoulder, she snapped.

"Don't touch me!" She shouted, turning back to face him, no longer caring of the tears streaming down her cheeks. "You have no right to be here on my father's grave," she snapped, hating the way he looked at her, as though _she_ were the bad guy. "I don't give a damn what Peter says about you," She shouted, though even as she raised her voice, the anger didn't feel genuine; or at least, it wasn't directed at him.

"You took two parents away from me," She continued, ignoring the way he flinched. "Peter told me about the hunger. He told me he felt it, that he killed Nathan in a different timeline. But you-you killed him here." She let out a long breath, shivering violently as the rain continued to fall. "And even if I could accept that the hunger contributed to what you've done, that still doesn't excuse it. You still let yourself fall victim to it."

"I know."

She groaned, shaking her head quickly. She hated that he wouldn't fight back, hated that he took everything, right or not, as though he deserved it. She knew that he did, but she hated feeling like she was kicking a puppy when what she was doing was entirely justified. He was a psychopath, for God's sake. He wasn't human.

"Those things you said to me in the hotel room," She said suddenly, her words spilling out faster than she could hold them back. "Those had nothing to do with the hunger, or whatever the hell you want to call it. Telling me I'll love you? That I can be the first lady? Those were just you screwing with me because you liked to. That was _you_."

He was silent. She thought she would feel some sense of satisfaction upon proving him wrong, by showing him that he was just as filthy underneath without his abilities, but all she felt was a dull aching in her chest. He'd tormented her for so long that she thought she'd enjoy getting the last word in, would enjoy proving him wrong just as he'd tried to do to her the night he caused her mother's death. And yet she felt nothing.

She turned back to her father's grave, the name a blur now as the rain came down in sheets. She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, though it did no good. She could feel her teeth chattering slightly as the cold settled deeper into her bones, wished for a moment that she hadn't thrown Sylar's jacket back in his face. Her tears had stopped, washed away by the rain. She wasn't sure what to feel; how did you grieve for the same person twice?

"I hated you."

She turned back to Sylar when he spoke, unsure if she'd heard him correctly. He was staring back at her, his gaze uncomfortably intense.

"What?" She asked, and he frowned.

"I hated you," He repeated, and she could only stare as he continued. "You had everything. You had a loving family who would do anything for you, and you were still unhappy. You acted like you were always wronged in some way. You saw what my parents were like, Claire." She did; she could still remember Virginia Gray's unyielding criticism, the way it felt to see his mother's blood spilling onto the pavement as his father drove away. "I was always just a pawn. I was never their son. The only mother who could have cared for me was murdered."

She thought she could hear anger underlying his words, saw his hands clench into fists as he spoke. She flinched back slightly, waiting for him to lift a finger and end her once more.

"We both had two sets of parents. We were both abandoned, different. Alone. But you had a chance. You had a mother and a brother and a father who would kill for you, and I had _nothing_. That, Claire, is why I hated you. That's why I tortured you. Because despite all that you had, you still thought you had nothing."

Claire was silent. She watched as his hands slowly unclenched, the way one finger lifted slightly only to fall back. His chest was rising and falling quickly, and she imagined that, were it not for the rain, she would be able to hear the racing of his heart.

She could feel him again, a hand grasping for a tenuous thread, a connection of any sort. She realized distantly that he wasn't even aware of it, didn't even know he was doing it. Still, she closed herself off, turning away from him and ignoring the shiver that ran down her spine.

_'I'm sorry.'_

Those were the words forming on her lips before she swallowed them, her eyes widening slightly at the realization. How could she even imagine feeling guilty for something that she hadn't even known she'd done? And even if she had, how would that change a thing? Still, the gnawing sense of guilt she felt in the pit of her stomach wouldn't abate, no matter how she tried to rationalize it away.

She could feel his eyes on her once more, and wondered if he'd heard her almost-apology. The thought made her shiver for an entirely different reason than the cold. She glanced at him, still able to feel the small thread that stretched between them, the attempts at empathy that she continued to destroy.

He looked human, kneeling in a cemetery with a jacket on his arm, the rain plastering his hair to his forehead and shirt to his skin. He was the perfect image of a mourner, come to pay their respects to a fallen loved one. He could have fooled her, had she not known him.

How could she even consider his humanity when she was kneeling on her father's grave? He would have been so disappointed to even see her associating with the man who had attacked her, much less considering that he was anything but a monster. She didn't want to destroy her father's memory by throwing yet another of his ideals back in his face. She had already done that too many times.

"_I felt like I was betraying him by letting myself forgive Sylar, that I was tarnishing his memory. Isn't that what you feel, Claire? That you'd be betraying Meredith and Nathan by even considering the idea that he's changed?"_

She heard Peter's voice as though he were the one sitting beside her instead of Sylar. Of course that was what she felt, about her father as well. How could she feel any differently?

"_Forgiving Sylar didn't make me a traitor, Claire. It made me stronger. By seeing his humanity, I found my own. Hatred burns you from the inside out. It's a poison, and I was sick of killing myself."_

Her hatred had begun to burn itself out. All she felt now was the exhaustion of trying to dig up memories that pained her more than they hurt him.

"_I forgive him because he's changed, Claire, and he keeps trying to."_

She saw the way his finger moved as though of its own accord, the way he repressed his urges even when they began to take over. But he had begun to hurt her again, back in the farmhouse. He hadn't cared.

_"I know he screwed up, but he's human. As much as you might like to think otherwise, he is."_

She shook her head quickly as though to dispel the thought, but Peter's voice was one that she couldn't run from. He'd always been there for her, always helped her. He would never put her in danger. He saw what other people couldn't, found the good where others only saw evil. She'd always admired him for it, but she felt sure he must have been wrong this time.

"_We talked a lot in those five years. He told me about visiting you at college, that you said his abilities might have eaten away at what was left of his humanity. You set him on this path, Claire. Indirectly and inadvertently, sure, but you helped him."_

She turned her gaze back to Sylar, who was no longer watching her. He had his head turned down towards the ground, his eyes closed and hands folded, almost as though he were praying. It was a strange sight, and one she quickly turned away from.

She was here for her father, not Sylar. It was his face she should think of now, but the only image she could bring to mind was the one taken after his passing, his skin pale and bloodless. She squeezed her eyes closed tightly, reaching back, back, for something, anything, else to hold onto. She saw him smiling at her in the doorway of her bedroom, another teddy bear in his hands.

"_Claire-Bear,"_ He said softly, and she laughed, hurrying to him for a hug. It didn't matter how old she was; she always loved the things he brought back from his trips, because they were from him. It didn't matter what they were.

She wanted to tell him she was sorry. She wanted to thank him, truly thank him, for everything he'd done for her. She wanted him to know that she was grateful, that she loved him. She wanted to hear him call her name one last time. She _needed _him. It didn't matter that she was twenty years old; it didn't matter that she still looked like a teenager. Nothing mattered except him, and he was the only person she couldn't tell that to.

All she could think of was how disappointed he would have been to see her here with Sylar. How disappointed he would be that she'd let any of this happen. He would have wanted her to make it right, to go back into hiding and never show her face again.

But she couldn't do that.

She would clean up the mess she had made. She would find a way to let people like herself live out in the open, even if it took decades. After all, she wasn't going anywhere. Her father had been wrong in the past; perhaps, someday, he would see her and be proud.

Or perhaps not.

She quickly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, but it was pointless. Rain continued to fall, the stinging droplets no longer as painful as they once were. Her skin was numb and frozen, but she was finally beginning to feel the grief she'd been sure wouldn't come again. It was a physical force, a blow to the stomach that chased all air away from her lungs and left her gasping. She was suddenly grateful for the storm that was brewing, though she knew that Sylar could hear her crying, choked noises escaping her lips as she struggled to regain her footing. He was gone. Her stronghold, her protector. Her dad.

"I need you," She whispered, looking at the gravestone as though it held the answers, as though it were at fault. "You weren't supposed to go!" She screamed, forgetting for a moment where she was and with whom. She wrapped her arms around herself, rolling forward on her heels until she was back on her knees. "Please, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

There was silence. She was unsure how long she sat there, her eyes fixed on a single point far away, refusing to look back at the place that marked her father's grave. She only became aware of her surroundings when someone began tugging gently on her arm, urging her to stand up.

"We need to go," Sylar said, talking loudly to be heard above the rain. "Claire, we need to go. There's a storm coming."

She pulled her arm roughly from his grasp, turning back into herself, ignoring the way he called her name. She didn't care about the storm; she wouldn't die. He could leave it he wanted to, but she wouldn't go with.

"Claire," He began again, grasping her arm once more, and she tore herself free.

"No!" She shouted, aware on a certain level how ridiculous and irrational she was being.

"Claire, _please_," Sylar said, the word sounding strange coming from his mouth. "We need to go."

She shook her head quickly, turning her eyes back to the headstone in front of her. She felt him grasp her arm one more and steeled herself, though he managed to pull her roughly to her feet, spinning her around to face him. She saw herself as though from a distance, shoving and kicking and screaming as she struggled to push him away, the places where he touched her bare skin burning in his wake.

"_No_!" She screamed, hating herself even as she did so. This wasn't who she was. She wasn't someone who grieved in front of others. She wasn't someone who put her weakness on display, especially not in front of someone like Sylar. The only person she'd ever truly allowed herself to be vulnerable around was Gretchen, and she hadn't seen her in over two years now. This was wrong.

He wouldn't let go. She eventually stopped struggling, the same numb complacency she'd associated with him for a while now taking over. She felt his grip on her arms loosen slightly, though they quickly tightened once more as she began to slip.

"I'm sorry, Claire," he said quietly, and she glared at him, hating the pity that laced his words.

"Don't be," she muttered, feeling herself slowly coming back, the freezing droplets of rain pricking her skin once more. She pulled herself out of his grasp, refusing to turn back to the grave. "Just-take me back."

He nodded, placing his hand on her shoulder. When she opened them again she was back in her room, dripping water on the hardwood floor.

She stared at Sylar as he stepped back, a frown evident on his features. He looked so incredibly uncomfortable that, under any other circumstances, she might have had to laugh. In the end, however, he simply turned out of the room without a word, leaving her shivering and alone.

_**To be continued…**_

**Note:** Again, I'm soooo sorry I haven't updated in so long! I have such terrible writer's block, but I'm still trying to push past it. I feel like my writing is getting worse because of it, and it shows…but hopefully I'm wrong.


	16. Conflicted

Despite the fact that he'd been sleeping in the same bed for nearly two weeks now, Gabriel still often found himself waking up in a stupor, panic seizing his chest as he looked at his unfamiliar surroundings. It was only once he heard the ever-familiar ticking of the clock hung high on the wall next to the bed that he began to calm, syncing his breaths and heartbeats with the only sound that had ever brought him any sense of peace.

He'd tried several times to convince Peter to let him take the sofa bed, but he refused every time, saying that he was more comfortable there anyway, a notion that Gabriel suspected wasn't entirely true. Still, he was grateful for the extra room to stretch out his longer legs, and after spending so long strapped to a metal gurney, he was glad for the extra comfort of a well-worn mattress.

Still, he worried he was beginning to overstay his welcome. The past two weeks had begun to blend together, separated only by small nuances and ticks that disrupted the careful flow that had been established. Monotony was something Gabriel was used to; his job had involved listening to the same sound for hours on end, carefully and precisely manipulating the smaller parts of a much larger whole. Still, he couldn't see to find the same comfort in routine now as he did back then.

Perhaps it was the threat of the upcoming week that made it hard to ignore. They were, after all, willingly walking back into a place that had kept him imprisoned for well over two years. After the 3 years spent alone inside his own mind and the 5 with Peter, he was getting sick of being forced to stay in one place for so long. Though he was grateful for the time spent with Peter, he didn't intend to add to those years strapped to a metal bed with IVs hooked into his arms. He didn't have eternity to waste any longer.

Even beyond that threat, however, something else had disrupted the careful order Peter had planned for their small 'army': Claire Bennet. Gabriel had watched her closely since the night at the cemetery, and it was obvious even to him that something was off about her. He'd originally passed it off as grief; he knew how it felt to lose a parent, even if he'd never had the chance to say goodbye to his. But as the days wore on, she began to withdraw further and further, excluding even Peter from herself. Gabriel had promised himself not to use his abilities on her any longer, and yet he still found himself occasionally searching for a thought, a snippet, anything that could give him a clue as to what was going on inside her head. It didn't register with him right away that the desire he felt was simply hunger pangs.

The few thoughts he'd managed to catch were fairly uneventful. She went through the motions of a day like anyone else. Every other morning he, Claire, and Peter would make their way to the warehouse. Plans were still being laid down, positions rearranged and different strategies discussed. A few of the specials who had some experience with combat, formal or informal, had offered to give some advice to those who weren't quite so well-versed. Though the ideal plan was to use their abilities rather than their fists, Peter insisted that every scenario had to be planned for, especially those that fell under 'worst-case'.

It was during one of those sessions that Gabriel caught something very out of the ordinary. He wasn't participating much in the informal training session; he felt confident enough in his abilities to not have to rely on brute strength, and even if that became necessary, he didn't feel inclined to practice on people who already looked at him with fear in their eyes.

Claire, however, seemed almost eager. She was stern and focused, taking every step carefully and watching her opponent with wary eyes. It was only once she knocked their legs out from beneath them, sending them tumbling onto the hard concrete floor, that he caught the images she was projecting so strongly.

Men lying in pools of blood, their necks sliced open and legs bent at impossible angles. The Doctor from the hospital, strapped to his own table as she pressed a lit cigarette to his forearm, a smirk cruelly turning up the corner of her lips as he screamed. He could feel the joy, the exhilaration, that Claire felt at the sight of their blood staining the ground beneath her feet. Somehow this was right, this was justice in her eyes. Their blood for the blood of so many; for the blood of her father.

Gabriel felt the remnants of the hunger boiling deep within his gut, stirring up memories of the adrenaline rush he'd experienced every time he uncovered a new mystery and took it upon himself to solve it. Breaking things down into their smaller parts, searching through every synapse and nerve ending to find the single one that held the answers to everything, perhaps even the universe itself. The moment when he pinpointed that exact location, the source of something so incredible that people ran in fear at its sight, gave him a perspective unlike anything he could ever have conjured on his own. He imagined the euphoria produced was similar to a high, but unlike drugs, his would not wear off so easily.

And yet this desire was so completely alien on Claire Bennet that, had he not just seen the evidence himself, he wasn't sure he'd have believed it. Gabriel knew that he'd targeted her during the years he spent discovering and attaining his abilities; she was the purer version of himself, a white blank page that had yet to be written upon. He'd been so desperate to prove to her that they were similar, both to justify his actions to the small part of himself that still craved redemption and to satisfy the much larger part that simply wanted to taint what was good. She'd been so incredibly stubborn, so self-righteous and condemning, that he took it upon himself to break her down bit by bit; and yet somehow, her core was stronger than his own. Even when he violated her in one of the most personal ways possible, even after he whispered in her ear of love and eternity, she remained resolute in what was quickly becoming hatred. At least that was a start.

But he found no satisfaction now in the darkness that was spreading its poison through her mind. He had no desire to see her turn into a killer; the pureness that had spurned so much hatred and resentment within him before was now something he relied upon, in a strange and not entirely healthy way. He didn't realize how used he was to her strong and condescending moral compass until it began to spin out of control. Evidently he wasn't the only one with identity issues any longer, though Claire seemed entirely un-conflicted about the murderous thoughts rampaging through her mind, a thought that was more unsettling to Gabriel than the same thoughts that always lurked at the back of his own mind.

It was with these very thoughts in mind that Gabriel pulled himself out of bed, the steady ticking of the clock mirroring his own thoughts. Every individual part of their plan would either make or break the ambush that Peter was so fervently planning. Every single person had to be focused solely on their individual duties; emotions and passions couldn't interfere, or all would be lost. The ticking skipped, two beats running together and throwing off his concentration, a frown tugging on his lips as he looked at the timepiece on the wall. Claire would be that abnormality, the anomaly that stepped out of place and sent the entire row of dominos tipping over, the out-of-place tick that careened time off its well-set course. Revenge was pulling too strongly on her, and if her thoughts were any indication, she would be unable to resist.

As much as he hated to play the middle-man, he knew that someone had to snap her out of the delirium her father's death had sent her into. Peter sure as hell wasn't going to do it; even when Gabriel had brought up Claire's strange behavior to her uncle, Peter had simply shook his head, passing it off as grief and impatience. Gabriel knew that Peter meant well, and was understandably preoccupied with the many lives that now rested on his carefully-laid plans; still, someone had to make sure things went as they were supposed to.

Someone had to make sure Claire didn't screw them up.

It was with these thoughts in mind that Gabriel pulled on a pair of black jeans and a simple button-down shirt, having made his own discreet trip to his old home. It was in considerably better shape than Claire's had been, though he wasn't sure it had gone entirely untouched. If he'd been sure that it wouldn't be found he would have left Peter's apartment long ago, but having been taken fairly close to his own home, he wasn't sure he could risk it.

He stepped out into the living room, somewhat surprised to find Claire sitting on the couch. She'd taken to the solitude of her room for so many days over the past week that seeing her in another environment felt unnatural and alien. She was wearing a pair of blue jeans and a long-sleeved white peasant blouse, the wispy material hiding the newly-thin frame that he knew lay underneath. She looked almost nothing like the fiery teenage girl he'd seen her as before; the term 'Cheerleader' seemed wrong to apply to her now, even condescending. For while she still held some of the same fire, she was no longer a teenager. She had to be at least 20 by his count, and she seemed even older. After all, most juvenile girls weren't spending their time fantasizing about blood and death.

She looked up when he stepped into the room, her eyes narrowing slightly as he made his way over to the armchair that sat across and slightly to the side of the sofa. He sat down, stretching his long legs out in front of him so that they nearly touched the foot of the couch. She pulled her feet up onto the couch immediately, and he felt a surge of both amusement and irritation bubble to the surface at the response.

"I'm not going to bite, Claire," he couldn't resist saying, which only caused her to purse her lips slightly, turning to look at him.

"I'm well aware," She said flatly, and he leaned forward slightly in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees as he watched her, hands hanging loosely between them.

He could tell that talking to her was going to be like pulling teeth. Several times he had almost sworn she was turning a corner regarding him, finally opening her mind to the slight possibility that he might have changed, was no longer the Sylar she remembered from her youth; and yet every time he felt the beginning of any sort of connection with her she pulled away, violently resistant to even his unconscious intrusions. He would be lying if he said he didn't covet her ability still; he remembered how it had felt, to see ones skin patch itself back together, veins and arteries reconnecting and flowing blood back into his body when anyone else would have died. The power that he sought with every acquired ability couldn't compare with the rush he felt upon healing, coming back from beyond the brink of death. There was nothing that could make him stronger than immortality.

Still, the thought of eternity was a harsh one, and a reality that he wasn't sure he was prepared to face again. After all, he'd spent three years facing it alone with nothing but timepieces and himself for company. He wasn't eager to relive that nightmare and find out its truth.

He turned his eyes back to Claire, who was staring back at him with undisguised malice. He stared back; he wasn't going to tiptoe around her any longer. He wouldn't antagonize her, but he had neither the time nor the energy to do his best to avoid her. The guilt he felt for all he'd done to her and those she loved wouldn't abate; he'd leanred to live with it, and though it was an extra weight that he longed to have lifted from his shoulders, he knew that it was nothing less than what he deserved. Just because Peter had been gracious enough to forgive him didn't mean anyone else owed him the same privilege.

But someone had to talk to her.

"Are you ready?" He asked simply, rewarded by the surprise that briefly overtook her features as she adjusted her weight, tucking her feet underneath her as she watched him.

"Yes," she said simply, and he sat up straight, folding one leg over the other.

"You can't lose focus." He said, catching the brief flicker of annoyance as it passed over her face, turning her lips down into a perfect picture of a scowl. "You have to keep Whitney safe. Even if that means passing by some unfamiliar faces and leaving them unharmed."

She stiffened, glaring at him now.

"Read my mind?" She asked, and he frowned.

"It would have been obvious even if I hadn't, Claire," He said, standing up as she did, effectively blocking any exit that didn't lead to the kitchen or Peter's bedroom. "You're losing focus. Revenge isn't the way-"

"Weren't you the one who asked me if I wanted revenge?" She demanded, cutting him off mid –sentence. He remembered that moment, back in the burned-out shell of her own home. He'd needed her to keep moving, knew the temptation of vengeance on those who had wronged her to be the motivation she needed.

"Now isn't the time for it," He affirmed, and she rolled her eyes, a sound of disgust escaping her lips.

"Who the hell are you to tell me that?" She demanded. "You're the one who always wanted it. Revenge on Angela for lying to you, revenge on Peter's father-my grandfather-for using you. Revenge on my father for his company, even though he did you no harm-"

Gabriel cut her off even as the rational part of his mind screamed for him to be silent.

"Did me no harm?"" He repeated, hearing the anger in his own voice. She quieted, apparently having not expected this reaction. Yes, Claire was hurting; yes, her father had just died. But Noah Bennet was not, nor had he ever been, a saint.

"Yes," She said, though her voice wavered slightly.

"Your _father_," He began, spitting out the word as though it were poison. "Took away my only chance." He found himself stepping closer to her, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides even as she took a single step back, nearly stumbling back onto the couch. He paused in his stride, speaking now through gritted teeth.

"He wasn't content to leave me alone. Once he found out what I could do, he turned me into a guinea pig. A rat that he could run through a maze for his own entertainment and curiosity. I didn't _want_ to be Sylar, Claire," He said quietly, struggling to control the part of himself that wanted to hurt, to destroy. His finger twitched, a muscle memory urged on by the hunger pangs he felt deep within his gut. "Your dad dangled a special in front of me. Practically wrapped him up and put a bow on top. He wanted me to kill him, so he could understand my ability. He needed me to be a killer to justify himself. If it weren't for him, I might have been able to stop. I _had _stopped. In a way, it's your father's fault I became Sylar." He knew that he needed to stop; the look on Claire's face had faded from raw anger to confusion and fear, and as he caught snippets of her thoughts, he knew that she was teetering on the edge of acceptance. Still, the anger that he'd felt for so long, that had been building up over the past few weeks, finally found an outlet, and it fully intended to take advantage of it.

"If I had never become Sylar, I would never have come after you."

The words had their desired effect. She shrank back as though he had struck her, falling back onto the sofa behind her as he took a single step closer, effectively closing the distance between them. He grasped the back of the couch with one hand, using the other to turn her face towards his own. His long fingers tightened their grip slightly as she struggled to turn away.

"I'm tired, Claire," He said quietly, stern enough that she didn't attempt to fight him off. "I'm sick and tired of trying to prove to people that I've changed when they can't even see that it wasn't entirely my choice to _be_ this person. I understand that the fault does ultimately rest with me. And when I face my maker, or whatever the hell it is that decided it would be fun to put us here, I'll attest to that. But I'm not the monster you've made me out to be. I had a family, a life. I went to school just like any other child. I had a mother and a father, at least for a time. And I didn't stay awake at night dreaming about splitting open skulls."

He could feel his chest rising and falling quickly, the shallow breath that stirred the loose strands of hair that had fallen in front of his eyes. She was silent, her eyes wide and watching him carefully. He felt a stab of annoyance at the fear he saw in her eyes until he realized that he was still holding tightly onto her, his fingers digging into her soft skin. It took a conscious effort to make himself let go, taking a single step back as he realized that he'd just ruined any progress he'd made with Claire Bennet, or with himself.

He could feel the apology on his lips already, pushing its way through the anger and annoyance he still felt at her flippant comments and blind admiration of her now deceased father. Still, he bit it back, refusing to waste his breath on someone who had obviously already made up their minds.

"Don't screw things up next week," he said simply, keeping his eyes on her prone form. "Forget about revenge. Just do your job, or you're going to get other people killed. Just because you can't die doesn't mean that those you're supposed to protect have the same luxury."

He could feel her eyes on him as he stepped away, turning back towards Peter's bedroom. The anger hadn't dissipated, and though it felt base to admit it, he didn't want it to. He felt more comfortable this way; trying to control his temper and bring back the remnants of Gabriel that Sylar had shattered was a struggle, and though he had thought the end result would be worth it, he had begun to wonder. He didn't want to kill anymore, didn't want more blood on his hands. He couldn't wash off that which had already stained them. And yet he also couldn't pretend to be a man who didn't exist. He wasn't Gabriel any longer, despite the fact that that was what he chose to call himself, nor was he Sylar, the serial killer. He was just-himself. An angry and bitter man with too much in his past to make up for in the present.

Still, he had been wrong to do to Claire what he had. She infuriated him at times; he'd thought she'd left the naiveté and blind love behind her when she'd taken that leap from the Ferris wheel, but it seemed he was wrong. He could admire stubbornness, but there was a point when it became simple stupidity. She was choosing not to see what was infinitely clear to anyone on the outside: that she was heading towards a self-destruction that would take out anyone standing too close.

He stepped into Peter's bedroom, closing the door behind him. As the lock slid into place he became aware once more of the ticking of the clock on the wall, steadily marking the seconds until they would once more approach the place he'd tried so hard to escape. It felt like months ago that he'd been lying on a cold metal gurney, needles and tubes snaking throughout his body and keeping him prone, a prisoner. Were it not for Peter's personal involvement and stake in the hospital, Gabriel was unsure if he would have agreed to go.

He'd never seen Emma there. Then again, he'd never seen Claire, either. He hadn't had much time to speak with the woman who had become so obviously important to Peter; after the night at the carnival, he had only seen her in passing, offering a nod in exchange for the warmth of her smile. She was the only one who had only seen him as the person he wanted to be; the fear he so often caught in the stances and eyes of others was absent within her. She only knew him as the man who had rescued her, and it was why he found her the easiest to be around. There was no pressure of his past; he could simply be.

The clock skipped a second, the anomaly pulling him from his thoughts. A frown tugged on his lips as he glanced at the small hands within the timepiece, cringing slightly as it pushed itself further off time. Claire was going to be that mistake, the small piece that shifted just enough to throw off the entire machine. She was going to bring it all crumbling down on a whim; he knew that his words had done nothing to dissuade her, and he wouldn't fool himself into thinking so. No, someone would have to watch her, make sure she didn't fall out of line. He wouldn't let her stubbornness be the reason Emma, or anyone else, fell.

Gabriel pulled the clock from the wall, setting it down on the bed in front of him. As he removed the back cover and began to search for the abnormality, a plan began to form in his mind. The anger he'd felt so strongly only moments before was slowly replaced by a cool determination as he readjusted the pieces, a small smirk on his lips as the machine in his hands came together once more. The satisfaction brought back the remnants of a not altogether different feeling, the pleasure of pinpointing an ability and fitting it into the labyrinth of those he had already collected in his own mind.

And for once, as he fit the clock carefully back onto the wall, he let himself remember how it had felt to hold something so precious within the palm of his hand, to pinpoint its location and use, and to rip it out for himself. A small shiver raced down his spine as he lowered himself back onto the bed, ignoring the way his stomach turned slightly. This was familiar; this was the person he'd grown so comfortable with, had come to recognize.

And yet if that were true, why did it make him sick to think about?

_**To be continued…**_

**Note:** Again, sorry for the long wait! I'm going on vacation for 2 weeks now, but I'm going to try really hard to update at least once within that span.


	17. Prepare

Claire had always known that her father had lived in shades of gray. He'd never minded doing things that would make most people blanche and cringe away, herself included. And he'd done it all to protect her. She'd felt guilt for so long, both for those he'd hurt in his mission and for making it so hard for him to do it. Still, to think that he could have had any hand in making Sylar who he had become-

She remembered that last night at the carnival, the way it had felt to see all of the horrors of her father's past laid bare on every mirrored surface that surrounded them. There was so much about him that she hadn't known, and while she'd refused to allow Samuel to twist her view, there had been many times since where she'd found herself wondering what else her father had kept from her.

But none of that mattered now. He was dead, shot down at the hands of those who had taken her. It was true that his murderer had never been captured, but she had no doubt as to who had done it. He'd been sticking his nose into things that he shouldn't have been, searching for her, and had paid the price for it.

She would make sure that those responsible paid the same one.

The days passed by quickly. Claire spent every day preparing herself for what she knew would become a battle. On the days they met up at the warehouse, she trained with the others, accustoming herself to using the limbs that had lain dormant for two years. She was reminded of the short time she'd spent with her father, a piece of a wooden beam gripped tightly in her hands as he yelled at her to swing. It wasn't an entirely pleasant memory, but it was one she held onto. She would show him that she had grown up, that she had changed. She could take care of herself now, and she would make sure his death wasn't in vain.

She knew that she wasn't nearly as skilled as she needed to be, but as the days continued to pass, she knew what she had would have to be enough. She was no longer a helpless experiment, something to be cut and poked and prodded. She was a human being, and she fully intended to show them that.

The rest of her time was spent either with Peter, going over the smaller details of the plan with a fine-toothed comb, or with Whitney. The girl had grown on Claire much quicker than she liked to admit; after spending years trying her best to keep everyone out, it felt strange to be able to be completely herself. It reminded her of Gretchen, whose face still brought a palpable pang to her chest. She'd almost asked Micah several times to search for her the way he had with her father, but part of her was afraid of what he might find. Her association with Gretchen, however brief it may have been, would no doubt have put the girl in danger. She imagined her friend sitting in their shared room, her long legs tucked up under her chin, watching Claire's fall from the Ferris wheel with wide eyes. Would she have been disappointed in her, or happy that she'd finally gotten what she wanted?

Claire frowned, sitting up in her bed. This wasn't what she'd wanted. She'd wanted a world where people like herself could live out in the open, one where their abilities were acknowledged rather than feared. This-this was hell. Pure, living hell. She remembered the way it had felt to spend all of her time locked in the same room, staring at the same four walls for hours on end, her only company an oblivious nurse and orderly who had looked at her far too long.

Her eyes widened slightly as she recalled his face. He still had no name, no identity beyond what she had seen of him. She tasted bile in her throat as she remembered the way it had felt to have him behind her, pressing her painfully against the tiled wall of the bathroom as he slid his hand up her thigh, his long fingers curling around her breast and digging the glass into her skin.

How could she feel guilt for killing him? Not only was he helping keep her and so many others captive, he was taking advantage of them. She wondered how many other girls he had tried to hurt the way he had her, how many of them had been powerless to fight back. Her hands curled into fists around the bed sheets at her sides, feeling her cheeks flush with anger and shame. He'd deserved it; there was no question. But then why couldn't she forget his face?

A knock on her door brought Claire from her reverie with a start, her entire body stiffening as she turned towards the noise. She let out a long breath, disentangling herself from her bed sheets and making her way to the door, fully expecting to find Peter standing on the other side.

"Claire," Sylar said, and she stiffened slightly, standing up straighter, as though that could compete with the height he towered over her.

"What?" She asked, her voice coming out harsher than she had intended. She kept one hand curled tightly around the doorknob, ready to close the door as soon as he gave her the chance. She felt his gaze on her form and suddenly wished she'd worn something to bed other than shorts and a tank top. The look in his eyes reminded her entirely too much of the man who had embodied her nightmares for years.

"Peter's called an emergency meeting," He said, his gaze flitting up and down her form once more before returning to her face. She forced herself to meet his gaze, narrowing her eyes slightly as he continued. "I don't know what it's about. But we need to leave now."

"Fine," She said stiffly, and still he stood there, as though expecting more. She raised an eyebrow at him, waiting, until finally he turned away.

"I'll be in the living room," he said quietly, and she shut the door behind him, turning the lock securely into place. It was a pointless comfort when faced with Sylar, but it made her feel safer nonetheless.

She pulled a pair of jeans and a simple light blue shirt from her drawers. They still felt like a stranger's clothes, the remnants of a life that she could no longer fit into. As she tugged her tank top off over her head, she couldn't help but think of the man standing only one room away, waiting for her.

Claire had always seen things in black and white. There was good and evil, right and wrong. Sylar had fit so clearly into her picture of evil that it seemed absurd to her to even think that he could ever shift, ever change. His actions a few nights before, pinning her to the couch and holding her chin tightly enough to leave bruises that would fade in moments, had given her pause. Of course he couldn't change; a person couldn't go from cold-blooded serial killer to changed man in two years. Peter insisted that, to him and Sylar, it had been much longer; and though she had no reason to doubt Peter's recount of those five years trapped inside Sylar's mind, she did have to wonder if he had simply seen what he chose to. She'd never had reason to doubt her uncle before, but when it came to the man she'd learned to hate, she felt she had a right to be skeptical.

Still, had she not known any better, she might have believed that Sylar at least wanted to change. She could still see the way his eyes had widened in fear as he let her slide down to the floor back in the farmhouse, as though he were unable to believe what he had almost done, again. She could still see his blue lips and fingers, watching her as they trudged through the snow, saving her life even as she left him to die. He'd taken her to see her father's grave, given her a chance to have some sort of closure. He'd given her distance, only touched her when absolutely necessary, spoken even less. He'd sounded so broken when he related to Peter what he'd done to her in the farmhouse, had sounded perfectly the part of a repentant sinner. And though he'd lost his temper with her a few days before, he'd apologized stiffly, a gesture that had taken her by surprise. He seemed to be stepping back even further now, refusing to give himself a chance to make the same mistakes.

She could almost hear Peter, as though he were standing behind her as she ran a comb through her hair.

_ 'Change takes time, Claire. He needs time. Don't crucify him before he's had a chance.'_

She felt a strange sinking in the pit of her stomach as she realized that it had been several nights since she'd had a nightmare involving the Boogeyman.

He was waiting in the living room, his long legs carrying him back and forth on a well-worn path in front of the door. He glanced up when she stepped into the room, waited while she tied her shoes, looking the other way until she stood back up.

"Ready?" He asked, and she nodded, turning her face away when he placed his hand on her shoulder. And while she still felt the initial revulsion that his touch brought, she closed her eyes, allowing herself for once to focus on something else. His fingers curled around her shoulder, tight enough to keep his hold, yet loose enough for her to pull away if she so desired. At this moment, he didn't seem dangerous. He felt like someone she knew, a distant acquaintance whose presence she hadn't felt in years. Perhaps a chance was what he needed—

She saw herself lying on her living room table, her scalp tossed carelessly against the wall, his fingers probing deep within her mind as his breath stirred the bit of hair left on her head, and stepped away from him as soon as he released his hold on her.

She wiped her palms on her jeans as she stepped towards the larger room off the warehouse floor, feeling his eyes boring into the back of her head. Perhaps he'd read her mind, seen what she had. She felt a frown tugging on her lips as she shouldered her way into the room, making her way towards Peter and Whitney at the largest table near the back.

Perhaps Sylar did need time.

But so did she.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

It wasn't long until the room was full. Claire, who had spent the last ten minutes speaking in hushed voices with Whitney, didn't realize it until she glanced up. She jumped slightly when Hiro appeared in front of her, two people in tow. He smiled at her, a genuine smile, and she struggled to offer him one in return, unable to repress he small pinpricks of jealousy she felt at his easy-going nature. Nothing ever seemed to faze Hiro Nakamura; he believed entirely in the sanctity of good vs. evil, that the good and righteous would always prevail. And though a large part of her envied this, an even larger part felt sorry for him. He didn't seem to understand how easily evil could win.

Claire turned back to Whitney when Hiro disappeared once more. The younger girl was watching the growing crowd with a serious look on her face. Her dark brown eyes were steady and sure, watching every new face that appeared around them. She tucked a strand of wavy brown hair behind her ear almost impatiently, a frown appearing on her lips. Claire reached out a hand and touched her shoulder, pulling back slightly when Whitney jumped.

"Are you-" Claire began, but was cut off as the murmuring around them suddenly ceased, every eye turning towards Peter, and in turn, them.

"I know that our original plan was to leave in four days," Peter began, his voice loud and sure as it echoed throughout the room. Several people had already begun to shift their weight, nervous expressions on their faces as he continued. "But plans have changed. We need to go tomorrow."

Claire stiffened, and felt Whitney do the same at her side. The soft murmurs had turned into a loud rumble, nearly everyone speaking at once. Peter stood calmly in front of them, content to wait them out. The panic was nearly palpable; Claire looked slowly from frightened face to frightened face until she made her way to Sylar, standing resolute in the corner as he always did.

He didn't seem surprised at all, and part of her wondered if he had already known. The thought that Peter would have confided in Sylar before her brought an unpleasant twist to her stomach, a feeling she fully recognized as jealousy. Sylar had his arms folded across his chest, his face a blank mask as he glanced over the crowd. She saw the corner of his lips turn up slightly, though whether it was cruel amusement or annoyance, she wasn't sure. His eyes seemed to follow the same path hers had moments before, finally pausing when he reached her own gaze. And though she knew she couldn't possibly have heard him speak from across the room, she swore she heard him.

_"Don't let them see you scared."_

She narrowed her eyes at him, imagining a brick wall in her mind, a fortress to keep him out. He didn't even twitch, nor did his eyes move a millimeter away from her own. She wasn't scared; she'd been expecting to leave in four days, and she could damn sure do it in one. It wasn't until his gaze flitted down that she noticed the fine tremble in her hands, curling them quickly into fists to hide it.

"Micah's been keeping tabs on the hospital," Peter continued, and it was only with a conscious effort that Claire tore her eyes away from Sylar's, looking back at Peter, who stood to her left. "He informed me last night that they're moving all of their files; they're going to transfer those there to another location, as of yet unspecified."

"Why don't we wait until they're on the move to ambush them?" Whitney asked. Claire glanced at her, frowning slightly as she considered her words. It certainly made more sense; without the added security of the hospital to deal with, they would almost surely lower the number of the dead on their side.

"Because they're only planning on taking half of the specials with them."

It took a moment for the implications of Peter's words to sink in. The first word that came to Claire's mind was 'genocide', an ugly word that brought to mind starving children and concentration camps. The hospital itself stretched several floors, including more underground that she'd never seen before. Micah had estimated that there were about seven hundred people there, prisoners as she and Sylar had once been. And though several had escaped with them or been killed in the melee, at least six hundred remained.

That meant three hundred people would be slaughtered.

Claire felt her stomach turn at the thought; three hundred people executed. Three hundred people whose lives were in danger only because of her impulsive leap. She had so much blood on her hands already that she couldn't wash off; she didn't want to add any more. But if those people died, she knew that she would feel their lives on her conscience for the rest of her life; and that could last a very long time.

She set her jaw, looking over at Peter as he struggled to contain the pandemonium that was breaking out among the crowd. His voice was the only one that sounded completely sure of itself as he lifted it above them, the sound echoing off the walls and quickly silencing the rest.

"I believe we're ready," he said, silencing further protests with a simple shake of his head. "I _know _we are. The only thing we were going to do in the next two meetings was give ourselves a chance to doubt. The sooner we do this, the better. We're ready; there's nothing more to accomplish."

There was silence. Somehow Claire found her eyes returning to Sylar, who had managed to maintain his stoic and disinterested expression. She was somewhat unsettled to find him already watching her, a barely perceptible frown appearing on his lips the longer she looked.

"I will understand if anyone wants to back out. I hope you will choose not to, but I won't force anyone to do anything they're not comfortable with. Please come see me in private if you want to back out; I'll be in the upstairs office." Peter paused once more, taking time to look over the entire room. "If I don't see you upstairs, I'll see you here tomorrow morning at 8 a.m."

Claire watched him as he left the room, the doors swinging shut behind him with a sound of finality. For a moment, no one moved. Eyes darted back and forth, and Claire knew that anyone who wanted out didn't want to be the first one to walk out those large double doors. She forced herself to look past Sylar and back at Whitney, whose hands were clenched into fists at her sides.

Claire had spent many hours with the younger girl for the past week or so, ever since she found out she'd be the one responsible for her life. Though she'd resented it at first, Whitney had a way of growing on her. Perhaps it was because she reminded her so much of herself: young, impulsive, and headstrong, a combination that more often than not led to trouble. They'd both been searching for their fathers at first, and it connected them in a way that Claire couldn't deny. Whitney was the only one she felt truly understood how she felt when she found out about her own father's death; the younger girl had been preparing herself for that very possibility for so long. Claire had offered to ask Micah to search for him in the records again, to see if any new information had come in, but she'd refused.

"I'd rather find out when we're there," was all she would say, and Claire let it drop.

She turned her eyes down to Whitney's fists, where her knuckles had begun to pale. A strand of hair fell in front of her eyes, and Claire resisted the urge to brush it back. She could see her jaw clenching, could almost feel the frustration emanating from her in waves. She understood the anxiety; she'd felt it every time her father was out of her sight after she'd learned what his real job was. She could feel the words on the tip of her tongue already: '_I'm sorry'_. But they were so incredibly empty, so pointless; what did her sympathy even mean? She'd always hated it when others dropped that phrase when she was hurting, as though it would simply give meaning to her plight, illuminate the light at the end of the tunnel. Pity only made things worse. It was for that reason that she found herself instead turning her eyes away, watching in silence as the room slowly began to empty, Hiro disappearing and reappearing in timed intervals.

Soon it was only her, Whitney, and Sylar, who still stood across the room. Claire felt a frown tug on her lips as his eyes met her own, a small shiver running down her spine at the blank look she found there. She felt Whitney tug lightly on her sleeve, whispering something in her ear that she knew Sylar could hear regardless. Still, she allowed herself to be led out of the room, turning away from Sylar when Whitney's grip tightened slightly.

She couldn't forget what he had told her about revenge, and yet she could think of nothing else. She would avenge her father's death; she would make sure that anyone who had any part in it paid with their lives. It was the only way she would ever find peace, ever move on. As it was, all she could think about was how it was her fault he'd been killed. If she'd never leapt from that Ferris wheel he, and so many others, would still be alive and safe in their homes, with their families.

She couldn't help all of them. She would try, by storming the hospital with Peter and stopping what would quickly become mass murder. She would help Whitney find her father, give her the peace that she would now never experience. And she would find some semblance of it for herself.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

"What happened between the two of you?"

Claire frowned slightly, glancing over at Whitney, who sat on the railing next to her. They were on the second floor of the warehouse, sitting just outside the door to the office that Peter currently resided in with Sylar. Peter had offered to take Claire home but she had refused, insisting she would wait until he was ready. Whitney had elected to remain with her until then, despite her feeble protests.

"Who?" Claire asked, though she knew full well who Whitney meant. She'd been looking at her strangely for the past half-hour as they swung their legs idly back and forth, staring down at the concrete floor far below them.

"That man. The one that everyone's afraid of. Sylar, right?"

Claire stilled her legs, listening to the soft groan of the metal beneath them and wondering not for the first time if it was going to collapse. She would survive, but Whitney…

"It's complicated," Claire said simply, and the words sounded like a lame excuse even to her own ears. But it was the truth; if she couldn't make sense of Sylar herself, how could she hope to explain him to Whitney? Besides, it was probably better that the younger girl didn't know all of the details of Sylar's past. They had to work together tomorrow, and putting fear into her wasn't going to help her focus.

"What relationship isn't?" Whitney asked, and Claire just nodded, keeping her eyes on the floor below them, judging the bones she would break if she plummeted down. She could feel Whitney's eyes on her form, as though she really were waiting for an answer. She frowned, biting down slightly on her lower lip as she turned back to the girl she had somehow already begun to think of as a friend, despite their age difference.

"Sylar used to hunt people like us," She said simply, gauging Whitney's reaction carefully. She blinked in surprise, though she didn't speak, as though waiting for Claire to continue. She didn't want to lie to Whitney; she hated it so much when people lied to her, whether it was to protect her or not. She wouldn't do that to someone else.

"He took their abilities," She amended. "Cut open their skulls. Poked around in their brains until he found what made them special. Then he ripped it out." She flinched slightly at her own words, feeling the phantom touch of fingers in her mind, probing deeper. "He took mine. I healed, but no one else did."

Whitney was silent for what felt to Claire like a long time. When she finally did speak, her words caught Claire off-guard.

"He's helping us now, though," Whitney said softly, and Claire couldn't help but feel a small stab of annoyance at how easily the words fell from her lips. She hadn't known about Sylar when he was hunting them, didn't know how he'd occupied a space in the back of her mind for years now, waiting for her defenses to lower to strike her down. He'd not only tormented her physically, but mentally as well. She would never forget some of the things he'd told her; she couldn't. And yet his actions now could excuse him?

"That's not enough," Claire said stiffly, swinging her legs back up onto the metal railing and pushing herself to her feet. She glanced down at Whitney, who was staring up at her with a strange look on her face.

"No," Whitney agreed, accepting the hand that Claire offered her. "But now he can use all of those abilities for good, can't he? Rescuing people who need him. Isn't that something?"

Claire pulled Whitney to her feet, looking away at the bright look in her brown eyes. Of course Whitney wanted to believe that; Sylar would be one of the most important pieces in the game they would begin tomorrow. With all the abilities he'd retained and those he was still obtaining, he held the most power out of anyone in their group. If Whitney wanted her father to make it out alive, they needed everyone they could get, especially Sylar.

"Maybe it is," Claire said quietly, her voice sounding distant to her own ears. She felt Whitney's hand begin to pull away, though after a moment the younger girl stepped closer, tucking her small hand within Claire's, squeezing her palm lightly. Claire felt a strange sense of warmth rush through her body at the gesture, and wrapped her fingers around Whitney's hand, pressing their palms together. She may have been 13, but sometimes Claire felt younger than Whitney. Something about the teenager calmed her down, made her see things more clearly.

With Gretchen there had always been an underlying tension, an expectation that she wasn't sure she could meet. But with Whitney, there was nothing to hide. Claire felt the same protectiveness for her that she did for Lyle, as though she had adopted another sibling. What had begun as an assignment had somehow turned into the first genuine friendship she'd had in years, a thought which reminded her somewhat uncomfortably of how she had come into her father's life.

"Are you scared?"

The words brought Claire from her reverie. She looked down at Whitney, whose face had turned up to look back. Again she felt the urge to protect her, to lie; but she couldn't do that to her. Whitney had already seen and heard more than anyone her age should have to; she could handle herself.

"Yes," she said simply, quietly. And it was true; though she couldn't get hurt, her stomach still turned at the thought of the hospital. She hadn't forgotten the stark white walls, the bright red hair of the nurse as she inserted needle after needle into the crook of her arm, the way the orderly pressed her against the bathroom wall, the way it felt to have a knife dug under her skin and peel it away from her muscles. Bright blue eyes that laughed at her screams.

"Me, too," Whitney said softly. Claire shook her head slowly, squeezing the other girl's hand lightly.

"I'll be with you the whole time," She said, her voice strong and sure. "You'll be fine. And we'll find your father."

Both turned their faces towards the door when Peter walked out, followed shortly after by Sylar. Claire turned her eyes away from his as soon as they met, felt Whitney hold her hand more securely, a silent reassurance.

"Are you ready?" Peter asked, and Claire nodded, pulling her hand away from Whitney's only once Sylar took a step in her direction. She watched as her uncle and friend disappeared, unable to quell the way her stomach churned as Sylar placed his hand on her shoulder, bringing her back to the living room that had become so familiar.

'_Find your priorities, Claire.'_

She stiffened, refusing to turn her head to look at him. She could feel his eyes on her form as she walked back down the small hallway, turning into the guest bedroom and slamming the door behind her. Her hands shook slightly as she turned the lock into place, though from anger or fear she was unsure.

She would do her job. She would protect Whitney, would make sure that their job was done and get her to a safe place. She would meet up with Peter and find out what he needed her to do. She would protect as many people as she could.

And then she would kill as many of the bastards as she could get her hands on.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

Claire woke later that night to the sound of a knock on her door.

She sat up slowly in her bed, her eyes taking a few moments to adjust to the dim lighting. The curtains were pulled away from the window, and she could see that the sun had already set. She was distantly surprised that she'd managed to sleep at all, much less for so long.

She untangled herself from the sheets and walked to the door, pausing for a moment with her fingers on the lock. She didn't want to talk to anybody right now; she knew that Sylar would see her plans in her face. Even without Matt's ability he had had the uncanny ability to read people, herself included, a thought that made her skin crawl beneath the thin material of her shirt. Peter knew her, though, and despite the fact that he'd been completely engrossed in the plans for the next morning, part of her still worried he would try to talk her out of her revenge.

She stiffened slightly, unlocking the door quickly and pulling it open a crack, keeping her face stoic as she met Peter's eyes, hidden behind his hair, which had grown in the years since she'd seen him.

"May I come in?" He asked, and she nodded, stepping away from the door and watching him until he walked inside.

"Claire, I hope you don't feel like I dumped this on you last minute," He said, and she frowned slightly, closing the door behind him. "I should have told you sooner that I was going to move up our plans. I found out a few days ago that they were planning on moving their patients, but it wasn't until last night that Micah realized they were only moving half of their files."

"Peter," Claire began, but he cut her off, shaking his head.

"I haven't had much of a chance to spend time with you, even though that was all that I wanted when you were gone." He sighed softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. She carefully sat down next to him, keeping her eyes trained on the wall across the room rather than meeting his own.

"I thought maybe if you knew—" Peter paused, glancing over at her. She could feel his eyes on her, though still she didn't turn her head. "Claire, Emma is there. In the same hospital you were in. I found out a few months ago. I already knew that you and Gabriel were there, and I'd been trying to figure out a way inside. But when you two escaped, I thought this was my chance. I could get back everyone I loved."

Claire finally looked at her uncle at the word 'love'. She'd known that he and Emma had a special bond, though she hadn't imagined it had progressed past friendship in her absence. It made sense, though; Peter was a good man, a hero. Emma was strong and sure of herself, and they would compliment each other well. She'd thought so herself before.

His erratic behavior had made sense to her already; Peter wouldn't rest until he had freed as many people as he could, until he could sleep without a guilty conscious for things that weren't even his fault. Add Emma to that and he would have time for nothing else. Still, a small part of herself felt a small stab of resentment; she hadn't realized how much she'd missed his reassuring presence until he'd pointed out its absence himself. She'd spent many nights in the hospital wondering if he would come rescue her as he had on more than one occasion in the past. She'd hoped for his presence, his comforting words and promises, but he'd never come. She didn't blame him for it; it would have been a suicide mission without knowledge of the inside, but it still hurt her somehow that he'd never come.

"I'm sorry, Peter," she said softly, turning her eyes back to the wall behind his head, watching the clock steadily tick away the minutes.

"Claire, there's something else I wanted to tell you."

Again she felt herself stiffen, wondering what Sylar had told him. He seemed so preoccupied with her and what she might do that she wondered if he'd even thought about his own part the next day.

"What is it?" She asked, forcing herself to meet his eyes again, struggling to quell the frown she felt forming on her lips.

"I'm worried," He said, and she just stared. "You've been acting so distant. The others in your group said you were almost ruthless during training. Ever since you found out about your father's death, you've been acting….strange. Cold. I'm worried that you're planning something you'll regret."

"Did Sylar tell you this?" Claire demanded, unable to keep the biting tone from her words. She saw the slight confusion on Peter's face as he furrowed his brows and knew that this was something he'd noticed on his own. She cursed herself quietly for letting herself be so transparent.

"No," He said slowly, shaking his head. He seemed to decide something then as he watched her, letting out a long breath before he continued.

"When I was in the future," He began, a frown on his lips. "When I obtained Gabriel's ability. You and a few others showed up. You-wanted to kill me." Claire felt her chest constrict slightly at his words; he'd told her the same thing years before as they ran through the sewers. He'd told her she was becoming a killer, that she killed him in the future. She'd tried so hard to push it from her mind that she'd almost succeeded.

"Things-happened," He continued, and Claire knew that he was purposely leaving things out, though she wasn't sure she wanted to know what they were. "And Gabriel lost control. He blew up, literally. A nuclear explosion that took out all of Costa Verde. It killed so many people. When I woke up, you were there. You told me I would pay for all the deaths I caused, and you took out a knife and cut me. You said you would hurt me for each and every person, one at a time."

Claire felt sick. She struggled to still the shaking in her hands as Peter lifted his shirt over his head, setting it down on the bed next to them. She could see the scars immediately; small white lines on his chest, his stomach. There were only a few, but somehow she'd caused them.

"Renee was there. I didn't heal," He said softly as she reached out a hand, running her fingers lightly over the raised skin that she'd maimed. The same hands that shook at the thought of hurting her hero had tried to kill him, had once succeeded. She'd_ tortured_ him.

She could feel her lips trembling as she struggled to hold back the tears that quickly welled up in her eyes. She wouldn't have done this to him; she could never have hurt him. He was the only good thing left in her life, the only strong and sure thing she had to lean on. She never could have made herself cut him, never could have made him bleed…

She turned her face up towards his when he closed his hands over her own, lowering them slowly into their laps. Despite the pain she'd obviously caused him, the pain she no doubt would have gone on to cause him, he looked concerned for _her_. She shook her head slowly, pulling her hands back from his grasp and letting them fall softly onto her lap. She trained her eyes on the harsh lights above their heads until she was sure that the tears wouldn't return. It was his voice that forced her to turn her face back to him, consciously wiping it of any emotions that threatened to fall through.

"Claire, I only told you that so you'd understand why I'm worried. Not for me, but for you. I know that isn't who you are, or who you want to be. I just want you to understand what path you're taking, and where it will ultimately lead you."

Somehow his words only angered her. All she wanted to do was make peace with her father's murder; she wasn't going to turn into Sylar, killing for pleasure and the adrenaline rush, for power. She had only one goal, and when she reached it she would turn away. And she wouldn't give up their mission for her own desires. She owed every single person in that hospital, and in so many other parts of the world. She owed them because she was the one who had put them there in the first place. She knew that, and the guilt it caused was a constant weight on her shoulders, a constant reminder of the thousands of wrongs she still had to right. Her father was another wrong, another load to carry until she made peace with it. She knew that their rescue mission came first; but as soon as her part was over, she would do what she had to.

Still, Peter's eyes were pleading as he reached out a hand once more, lightly touching the back of her own. She forced herself to smile at him, shaking her head even as she imagined how it would feel to slit the throats of those responsible.

"I know," she said softly, squeezing his hand lightly. The comfort it brought her was not pretend, even if it was under false pretenses. "I'm okay, Peter. Really. I know what tomorrow is about, and I won't let my own vendetta screw it up." She saw him open his mouth, but quickly cut him off.

"I'm not going out for blood," She said, tasting the lie thick on her tongue. "I've seen what it can do to a person. I don't want to be the one who hurts people. I don't want to be the one who hurts you."

That part, at least, was true. She didn't want to cause anyone, especially Peter, any more pain. But she refused to think of the men and women at the hospital as people; they had left their humanity behind long ago when they agreed to work that involved torture and murder. If anyone deserved death, it was them.

"I'm glad," Peter said quietly, and she allowed him to pull her to himself, feeling his heart beating through her shirt. She carefully wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder as he pulled her closer.

"We'll find Emma," Claire said quietly, and felt him stiffen slightly in her embrace. "We won't leave without her."

For a moment he was still, and as she began to pull back, he spoke.

"Thank you," He said quietly, and her guilt returned.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

_Claire couldn't see._

_The darkness surrounded her, enveloped her in a cold embrace as she struggled for breath. Something was pressing down on her chest, forcing air from her lungs and filling it with something else, something heavy and cold and painful. Her lungs began to spasm, bright spots dancing in front of her eyes and lighting up the darkness._

_And suddenly, she could breathe._

_Her surroundings came into focus as she was pulled harshly from the tank of water, gasping and coughing as her lungs healed, pushing the water up and out of her body. She fell to the ground, bruising her knees on the tiled floor. Even once all the water had been expelled from her lungs she still gagged, knowing she would have thrown up if she'd had any food in her stomach._

_And then she was being pulled to her feet, a pale hand clasped tightly around her arm, blue veins bulging out as he pulled her to the table. His eyes watched her like a child watches an ant under a magnifying glass, in awe at the power he holds over its life as it burns on the sidewalk. She couldn't feel pain, but she still felt. She felt pressure, cold and hot. Fear. And as he strapped her back down to the table, his bright blue eyes brought out terror._

_And then, suddenly, it wasn't her strapped to the table. It was Peter. She stood next to him, the same knife that had been used on her so many times clenched tightly in her hand. She pressed down hard on his chest, slicing down and out as he screamed, begging for her to stop, to recognize him. His heart was beating in plain view now; she'd had many live autopsies performed on her in her time in the hospital. She knew the humiliation, the fear, and, ultimately, the pain. And yet still she pressed down on his heart with the tip of the knife, watching as the blood poured out and stained her hands. And still she didn't stop._

Claire woke with a scream.

Her throat burned, but as she coughed, no water came up. She felt around frantically, running her hands over the bed sheets and struggling to place her location. It took her a few moments to realize that she was no longer in that hell. She was safe, with Peter in the next room and Sylar-

She shook her head quickly, struggling to still the tremble in her hands. When had Sylar become a thought of safety rather than fear?

She jumped when her door opened, stifling another scream as a dark figure strode inside. She heard a thump, a curse, and then the light was on and Sylar was staring at her.

She didn't speak for a moment; her heart was beating painfully fast, slamming against her chest with every passing second. Her eyes were wide, and she could feel tears streaming down her cheeks. Somehow she'd been expecting to see the doctor, a scalpel in hand and smirk on his lips. Or herself, cutting Peter to bits, relishing in the painful cries he emitted…

Her stomach turned violently and she wrapped her arms around herself, squeezing her eyes shut tightly and shaking her head.

"Get out," She said hoarsely, and as she heard his footsteps, she thought he'd agreed. The door closed softly, and she let out a long breath. She kept her forehead resting on her knees, taking deep breaths until her tears stopped. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, running her fingers through her hair as she lifted her head up, opening her eyes once more as her heartbeat returned to a normal pace.

And he was there.

She stiffened, scooting back until her back was pressed against the wall, putting a pitiful amount of distance between them. He was still standing by the door, a frown on his face as he watched her; he didn't even look embarrassed that he'd been caught staring.

"I told you to get out," She said flatly, meeting his gaze. He frowned, shifting his weight as he took a step into the room.

"Nightmare?" He asked, and she glared at him.

"You're obviously not listening to me," She snapped, and he shrugged nonchalantly, shoving his hands into his pockets in a gesture that seemed oddly juvenile on him.

"Peter had to meet with Micah again. He'll be back soon," He said by way of response, and she felt a small shiver run down her spine at the thought that she was alone with him.

"Thank you for delivering the message," She said coolly, but still he didn't move. She felt exhaustion deep in her bones, and knew that she wouldn't be sleeping for the rest of the night regardless of who else was in the apartment. She tucked her legs underneath her, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear that obstinately fell back, too short to be managed. She hated that he'd seen her cry, that it wasn't the first time. He'd always treated her as a child throwing a temper tantrum before; she hated that the only identity she had with him and so many others was 'cheerleader'. She wasn't a child any longer, and she didn't like to be treated as one. She frowned slightly as she realized that he hadn't called her anything but Claire for most of the past two weeks, and found herself wondering distantly if he'd finally accepted that not everything she did was volatile and dangerous, that she didn't act on impulse or a passing thought, even if it was that very thing that had led to their current predicament. He would have beaten her father to that realization, a thought that made her cringe.

She watched in silence as he stepped further into the room, running his hand lightly over the top of the dresser, the wooden frame of the chair that sat in the corner. When he finally turned back to her his frown had deepened, and she raised a brow as he settled himself into the chair, folding one long leg over the other.

The silence was thick and uncomfortable. Claire turned her eyes away, watching the clock on the wall as the minutes passed, waiting for him to tell her what he wanted or to get up and leave. When it became clear that he was inclined to do neither she spoke up, unable and unwilling to quell the annoyance that had seeped into her tone.

"What do you want, Sylar?"

She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting him to say. That he wanted her ability? She'd thought already of that; he was going into a battle tomorrow, and he was one of their most valuable players, according to Peter. He was no good to them dead, and yet she couldn't willingly give him an ability that he had taken by force before, that could make him invincible. She wouldn't be held responsible for any lives he might take while he couldn't be hurt, not if she could help it.

"Talk to me."

His words caught her off guard. She stared at him, looking for some hint of sarcasm or malice in his form or voice, but she could find none. And despite the nightmare she'd just had, this was the most unsettling thing she'd experienced all night.

"About what?" She asked warily, and he shrugged once more.

"Anything," He said simply. "Anything you need to."

She was unsure how to respond. What made him think there was anything she wanted to talk about, much less with him? He wasn't exactly the most reliable source, and certainly not the first she'd go to for advice.

"There's nothing to talk about," She said softly, a frown on her lips.

"What did you dream about?" He asked suddenly, and she felt a small stab of annoyance.

"Just a bad dream," She said stiffly, though already the images were coming back to her. It hadn't merely been a nightmare; she'd been remembering. They'd drowned her several times, testing how long it took for her lungs to regenerate, how long they would continue to do so while she was still submerged. It was just the torture with Peter that was new, that she'd done in a different life, another time.

She saw him cringe, and narrowed her eyes at him.

"You say you're sorry for what you've done, but you continue to do it," She snapped. He looked at her quickly, and the confusion she saw in his face was enough to push her over the edge once more. "You're sorry for what you did to me, but you're still crawling around inside my head. You're just doing it more carefully. How the hell can you and Peter expect me to believe you're anything but the monster I know you to be when you act like such a hypocrite?"

She felt a sharp stab of guilt as the words left her lips, a feeling that only stirred more anger. Why should she feel guilty for speaking the truth? It was true that she felt violated every time he entered her mind; just because it was in a less violent way didn't make it any more okay. Just because he wasn't searching for her ability didn't make her feel any less used.

"Sometimes it's hard to control," he said slowly, and part of her didn't believe him. "And sometimes I let myself slip."

It was the confession that gave her pause. He would never have admitted to doing anything wrong before; he would have justified himself, made her feel small and worthless and just like him, and then left her there to agonize over it for years. It was what he'd done before.

The anger had left her just as quickly as it had come. She was tired, exhausted; she didn't want to argue with him, but she didn't want to be in the same room as him, either. Peter had told her to give him time, a chance, and yet Sylar seemed intent to push her.

But he hadn't come in here for that, had he? He'd heard her scream and come to check on her, almost as though he were truly concerned, a notion that almost made her smirk. She could feel his eyes on her once more, and as she looked back at him, she only saw a question. He wasn't prying any longer; he only knew what he could see with his own eyes, and for that, at least, she was grateful.

"Peter told me what I did in the future." She heard the words as though they came from someone else. She wouldn't tell him any of this. "That I killed him. He told me that before, but today he showed me the scars I left when I tortured him." She could taste bile in her throat, and while her mind screamed for her to stop talking, her body refused to listen.

"I dreamt that I was hurting him," She whispered, refusing to look at the man who sat listening to her words. "First I was back with the doctor, and he was testing me, drowning me…and then I was the one with the knife. And I _enjoyed _it."

She didn't realize that her hands had begun to shake once more until Sylar stood up, taking a step closer to her.

"Claire," He began, and she shrunk back from him, unsure she wanted to hear what he had to say. "Claire, look at me," He said, and she felt his fingers digging into her skin even as he stood several feet away, memories of a few days prior. She forced herself to meet his gaze as he knelt down next to the bed, watching his hands from the corner of her eyes as he spoke.

"You are not that kind of person," He said, and he sounded so incredibly sure of himself, a notion that made her uncomfortable, as though he knew her better than she knew herself. "I know that, because I am. Or was. I enjoyed the fear, the adrenaline rush, the _power _that came with watching another suffer." She shivered slightly at the look in his eyes, at how much he clearly still lusted after those feelings. "But you have a choice," he added, and she saw how hard it was for him to bring himself back to the present moment, away from the bloodlust he remembered with, it seemed, both sickness and fondness. "You haven't done anything yet that you can't be redeemed for. You haven't acted selfishly. You may have been misguided at times, but you've never held the knife yourself. You've never murdered."

"That's not true," Claire said flatly, and was unable to find any amusement at the surprise on his face. "I murdered an orderly. At the hospital. I took a piece of glass and I slit his throat, even once he couldn't fight back."

For a moment she swore she saw recognition in his eyes, as though he already knew what she meant. She thought back to the night he'd almost split her skull once more, to the night later when they'd almost connected, when he'd almost regained her ability. Had he seen it one of those times…? The thought made her cheeks burn with a strange mixture of anger and shame.

"Why?" He asked, and she felt a smirk turn up the corner of her lips as she looked at him.

"He tried to rape me," She said simply, unsure why she felt any amount of satisfaction at the look on his face. He could murder and violate and make sexual advances at her, and yet the notion of rape still made him uncomfortable; angry, even.

She wasn't sure why she continued. If she pretended she was speaking to anyone else, it felt nice to finally talk about things that she'd kept inside for so long.

"He pressed me against the wall, reached his hand under my dress. I kicked him and beat him off. When he was on the floor and completely helpless, I decided he didn't deserve to live." Here she paused, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "I did the same thing in high school," She added almost distantly. "A football player tried to pull the same thing. Ended up killing me instead. It's a strange feeling, to wake up during your own autopsy," she added, feeling her stomach turn slightly at the memory. "I ran us into a wall at sixty miles per hour. He almost died, and my father had his memory wiped. I destroyed him. I tried to kill him. I figure that counts."

Claire found herself holding her breath, waiting for his response. She didn't know why she felt it was so important; he was a serial killer, a murderer. His opinion on her own actions shouldn't mean anything, and she shouldn't have needed them to make herself feel better. She knew that, and yet she still couldn't bring herself to let out the air she held inside her lungs until he spoke.

"You were hurt," He said slowly, and the notion of his pity made her sick. "No one deserves what happened to you, Claire. You acted like any other human being would have to protect themselves and others."

She'd hurt Brody for what he'd done to other girls, for what he could have done, as well as for herself. She'd killed the orderly for the same reasons. And while it still didn't excuse murder, she somehow felt as though Sylar were right: she was only human. And humans were allowed mistakes.

The thought sounded like something Peter would have said about his friend, the Boogeyman. Humans make mistakes. Humans deserve second chances. Sylar had hurt them out of selfishness, and in many ways, so had she. Her leap from the Ferris wheel wasn't for all of their kind to live in the open. It was a thought she'd had in passing, but she'd jumped for _herself_, with no thought as to the consequences her actions would have for anyone else. In that way, they were similar.

She remembered his list, the twisted classroom session he'd held at her college when she'd thought he'd had Gretchen held captive somewhere else. Adopted and raised by parents who couldn't hope to truly understand them. Distant fathers who killed for a living. Immortality. The fact that it had been stolen didn't change the truth.

She hadn't seen much of Sylar's childhood when they'd empathized that night in the clearing. She felt she'd seen enough, however; a father who would murder his wife in front of a son that he would sell for a handful of cash couldn't have been a good influence. Sylar had had unrealistic expectations thrust upon him by his adopted mother for years; he had never been good enough. She felt the beginnings of sympathy once more, which were only interrupted by the feeling of his hand coming to rest lightly upon her shoulder. She stiffened slightly, looking down at his hand, and for once, she didn't feel revulsion.

"You and Peter are the only ones I really believe can turn this around," He said, and she frowned slightly, unsure how to respond to this side of him, despite the fact that it'd been staring her in the face for over a month now. "You've both always looked out for the greater good. I'm not sure how much my word means to you, Claire, but I feel that I can say with confidence that you'll do the right thing, whatever that is."

Claire turned her eyes away, unwilling to let him see the small amount of comfort his words brought her. They shouldn't have given her any. She shrugged her shoulders lightly, forcing him to remove his hand. She bit down hard on her lower lip as he sighed, pushing himself to his feet and taking a step back.

"Goodnight, Claire," He said quietly, turning and making his way to the door. She watched him go, still able to feel his hand on her shoulder.

"Goodnight, Sylar," She said simply. She knew that he no longer went by that name, but she still couldn't bring herself to call him Gabriel. It would have felt like a lie, and she was done with lying.

She waited until the sound of his footsteps faded away before laying back down, the light still bright above her head. She knew that the darkness would only make her remember things that were better left forgotten. It was for this reason that her eyes refused to close; she knew that she needed sleep, but she was fearful of the things she might see if she did.

She hadn't moved in hours when she heard the sound of Peter's footsteps in the front hall as he slid back into his own makeshift bed, nearly tripping in the darkness of his own apartment. Part of her wanted to see what he had been discussing with Micah, but he was probably exhausted. She turned onto her side, looking through the curtains at the dingy alleyway that was the view.

Only a few more hours, and they would go.

_**To be continued…**_

**Note:** I'M SO SORRY THAT THIS CHAPTER DRAGGED ON SO LONG. I think I'll only have about five more chapters, max. But I also think I might do a one-shot or short series of chapters that take place in the future of this timeline and/or an alternate one.


	18. Sacrifice

Gabriel watched as the room slowly filled to capacity, with several people milling outside the large double doors in the main warehouse floor. The air hummed with whispered conversations, but he could hear all of them. They seemed fearful to speak any louder, to break the silence, as though that would release all the built-up tension that they carried within themselves.

He watched as an older woman helped a teenager with the belt where she would carry her weapon. Thankfully, many of the members of their ragtag group had already owned weapons, or had obtained them by questionable means after Peter had announced his intentions. Only those who had shown themselves skilled with them were allowed to carry one; the rest had to rely on their abilities, their fists, or handheld weapons. Hiro would be bringing his sword. Gabriel would only be bringing himself.

Peter stood at the head of the room, instructing those who needed him where to go, reminding them of their tasks, and oozing the confidence that they all needed. He shifted his eyes to the opposite corner, where Claire stood with Whitney, the key to their success. They had their heads bent down together, and part of him wanted to hear what they were saying. He frowned slightly, remembering Claire's accusation of his hypocrisy the previous night, and turned his head away.

It was nearing 3 a.m. They'd decided long ago that the best time to strike was in the middle of the night; security would be lax then, and most of the security would be focused on keeping the prisoners in their rooms. Both he and Claire had testified to that fact. Many of the faces that surrounded him looked bleary-eyed, tired, more like sleep-walkers than an army. The word made his lips curl up into a smirk; he couldn't help but be slightly cynical. He'd seen more than enough of the ugly side of humanity, had spent many years living within it, and he knew that what passed for an army among them would be laughable against the manpower the hospital had at its disposal. There were probably more on their way, preparing for the transfer to the other facility. They'd picked a bad time to move, but they didn't have any other choice.

Gabriel let out a long breath, leaning his head back to rest against the cool wall behind him. He'd recently acquired a good number of abilities, and the stirrings of the Hunger had turned into pangs. He'd managed to retain his telekinesis, flight, enhanced hearing, learning the history of an object, shape shifting, and part of Matt Parkman's ability during his stay at the hospital. Since then he'd not only obtained Hiro's, but also phasing, pyrokinesis, and invisibility. He could feel himself slipping once more, back into the person he was when he went to Claire at her college, desperate for answers and willing to do anything to get them. Being surrounded by so many specials only increased his Hunger, made focusing that much more difficult. He closed his eyes, feeling his nostrils flare as he struggled to push back the urge to learn, to understand. Why couldn't that have been an ability taken from him?

He opened his eyes when a hand fell on his shoulder. His eyes snapped open quickly, turning to the man who had disturbed him.

"How are you feeling?" Peter asked, and Gabriel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Peter knew how he was doing; every time he obtained a new ability, whether on purpose or simply through holding a genuine conversation, the Hunger tightened its hold. Empathy, he found, didn't have to be as clear as it had been that night with Claire. It could be found through a simple exchange of words, if both parties were honest enough. Distancing himself would be much easier, though part of him wondered if he could maintain a cold demeanor and not return to the person he had been before.

"I'm fine," Gabriel said simply, turning back to the larger room when Peter nodded. "How much longer before they're ready?" He asked, hoping to derail whatever conversation Peter had begun.

"Not long," Peter replied, pushing himself away from the wall. "As soon as they get their weapons together, we're going to form ranks. It'll take a lot of power to teleport them all at once, so you, me, and Hiro will have to do it together, with Ando supercharging us. Hopefully it'll be enough."

Gabriel nodded distantly, turning his eyes back to the crowded room. They hadn't had a chance to test this theory yet; it was impossible to get every member of their team together on one day. Most had come every other meeting, the responsibilities of their lives outside of this place keeping them from committing completely. Now, they didn't have a choice.

"What power are you taking on?" Gabriel asked, glancing back at Peter, whose eyes were scanning every inch of the room and the warehouse floor beyond.

"After we arrive, I'm just going to improvise. Hold onto Hiro's for a while and take what I need from there. I've already accessed most of the abilities here, so I should be able to regain them as soon as I touch the person they belong to," He said, pushing himself away from the wall and taking a step back into the chaos.

"I'll see you soon, Gabe," Peter said simply, and disappeared into the crowd.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

"I'm not going to give you a speech," Peter said simply, stepping back into the front of the ranks. He folded his arms across his chest, the scar on his face somehow more prominent in the dim lighting of the warehouse floor. "You don't need a pep talk. You're ready."

Gabriel folded his arms across his chest, listening to his friend's voice as it projected throughout the room, echoing from the walls. He stood to the far right of the first line, waiting for him to give the signal to Ando. Gabriel and Claire had described the spot they were teleporting to numerous times, adding more detail each time. Eventually Micah had found a way to hack into the security system of the hospital, and while he'd only managed to hang on for ten minutes, it had been enough to get an aerial view. There were no doubts about their destination.

His eyes wandered briefly to the woman he stood next to, her back straight and shoulders pushed back. Claire looked nothing like the scared girl he'd seen in her room the night before. Her eyes had hardened even further, somehow, and her jaw was set tightly. He felt a small stab of anger at the way she refused to even glance in his direction, as though she knew what he was thinking. He knew that he wouldn't be able to talk her out of whatever asinine plot she had devoted herself to; he just had to trust that her devotion to Whitney and those they had shared quarters with for years trumped that which she still held for her father. Still, that didn't mean he wouldn't make sure of it if he had the chance. He would follow if he could.

He turned his eyes back to the front of the room as Peter continued to speak, his eyes narrowed slightly as they passed over the ranks of specials he had assembled.

"Everyone remember your ranks. Don't fall out of them. Don't put yourself in unnecessary danger. This isn't a suicide mission; it's a rescue mission." He paused once more, locking his eyes onto Ando's near the back of the room, then Gabriel's, before nodding once.

"We're ready."

Gabriel reached down and grasped Claire's hand, ignoring the way that she simply let hers rest instead of gripping back. Once the chain had been formed, Ando began to use his ability; Gabriel only felt a slight tingle spread throughout his body, saw the red lightning dancing from his fingertips and spreading quickly from Claire's body to his own. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to block out the rest of the warehouse, the feel of Claire's palm pressed against his own. He was back in front of the hospital, stumbling through the snow and leaving it far behind him. He glanced back, saw the large double doors, the metal walls and bulletproof glass. He could feel his ability increasing, multiplying, spreading from himself to Claire, to Whitney, all the way down the line…

And then he felt everything else wake up.

He could hear the sound of a pin dropping seven miles down the road; the roar of wind in his ears was deafening, making his ears ring. He felt like he was suffocating; he quickly released Claire's hand, though already he could see her years ago, smiling at her reflection as she held a new cheerleading uniform in front of it, crying when her father didn't come home in time for Christmas, screaming in pain as the Boogeyman shoved her against the wall and murdered her friend.

But most of all he could feel the Hunger, stronger than it'd been in years.

His mind was like a puzzle, missing so many pieces, so much information, that he couldn't see what the whole was meant to be. Every synapse, every nerve longed for more: more information, more knowledge, more power. He was distantly aware of the sound of gunshots and screams, so loud he imagined he could feel blood dripping from his ears and to the ground beneath his feet, though it barely registered in his broken mind. All he could feel was an all-consuming lust for power and blood, and any thoughts of how he was trying to change were suddenly void.

His eyes snapped open, his brows turned down as he turned to face the source of the noise.

A wall of bullets floated in front of him. His eyes moved briefly to the specials around him who held them there, their faces twisted in concentration as a large group of guards fired again and again, slowly but surely overpowering their abilities. Gabriel turned back to the source, and with a simple flick of his wrist he sent the wall flying back at them, still moving at the same speed as they had been when fired.

His enhanced hearing allowed him to hear the sound of bullets tearing through flesh, cracking bones and lodging deep within tissue and muscles. The cries of pain and surprise from the guards were even louder, and they only spurred him on. He barely blinked as more spilled out of the front doors several feet in front of him, wasting no time before firing back into the ranks of specials. He heard the breath leave the lungs of one such special standing beside him as the bullet tore through their chest, boring a ragged hole in their lung before exiting through their back. He turned his eyes back to the guard, barely pausing to think before he snapped his neck with a simple movement of his hand, sending the body tumbling down to the grass beneath his feet.

The red fog in front of his eyes had begun to lift; he could see now that their ranks had split just as they had planned, those with more offensive abilities breaking off to find a way into the building while the rest tried to hold back the guards that spilled from the front doors. The air smelled thickly of gunpowder, sweat, and blood, a copper tang that made his stomach clench in a feeling that wasn't entirely revulsion.

_'Get inside,'_ a voice in his mind whispered, barely breaking through the chaos that he had created. He nodded slowly, taking a step forward and making his way through the front doors.

It didn't cross his mind that he could be hurt; he only remembered the way it had felt before, invulnerable and invincible, taking what he wanted and reveling in the power it provided. He barely blinked as he stopped bullets in midair, dropping them in place or sending them flying back. One guard managed to get close enough to grab him, though Gabriel simply twisted his arm back, ducking under and tugging the limb out of its socket.

He was beginning to recognize the layout of the hospital. He now stood near the front office, a place he almost never saw when he himself was a 'patient' here. Still, he'd seen it often enough in the minds of those who had poked and prodded at him, mapping their paths out and wishing they could take them sooner. His shoes were slick with blood as he stepped around the corner, closing his eyes and knowing even as he opened them that the guards would be unable to see him any longer.

His shoes left bloody footprints as he stepped past the throng, though only a few noticed the ghostly steps. Cries of surprise echoed from the guards and few staff members who had been unlucky enough to be caught in the crossfire as he sent a burst of fire in their direction, the smell of burned and charred flesh hanging thick in the air as they fell.

_'The upper floors,'_ the only voice of reason he'd retained whispered, and he turned away from the front doors as the lights above his head flickered. Their security system was still in full effect; he'd only been able to get inside through the already-open front doors. If Claire didn't get Whitney to the generators soon, their entire plan would fall apart.

Gabriel felt a strong surge of anger warm his body as he pictured the blonde going out of her way to kill those who worked here, ignoring her charge in order to satiate her own selfish bloodlust. He pressed his back against the wall, watching as wave after wave of worker and guard alike rushed past him, most armed and many panicked. As soon as the power went out, he would make his way to the staircase and begin to evacuate from the bottom up. Claire would meet him on the third floor, help him keep the hordes in order until they could get outside. That is, assuming she didn't go off on her own.

He waited. The effects of Ando's supercharging had finally begun to dull down, and the only magnified sound he could hear was the beating of his own heart. He wasn't frightened, but adrenaline made him anxious, his fingers itching to work, to do _something_ productive and dispel the energy that was bottled up inside of him. He clenched and unclenched his hands at his sides, counting the seconds that passed, quickly turning to minutes. He bit his lip to keep from swearing, unable to block out the shouts and screams as more and more of their ranks fell. Without the power grid, more specials would be free. With them they could easily fight their way out of the hospital, no matter how many men they held within their concrete walls.

The minutes continued to pass, and Gabriel grew impatient. He took a single step away from the wall, unmindful and uncaring of the men who stood just a few feet in front of him, shooting into the ranks of specials and avoiding the return fire. The doorway to the stairwell was down a thin hallway just around the corner from where he stood, set into the wall next to the elevators, which were constantly opening and closing as more and more security poured through. Gabriel waited only thirty more seconds before turning the corner, leaving bloody footprints in his wake as he walked towards the staircase door.

It didn't take long for someone to notice his trail once more. A guard turned in his direction, issuing a cry of alarm as he cocked his gun and pulled the trigger. Gabriel raised a hand, stopping the bullet in its path and sending it clattering to the floor, unable to suppress the smirk of amusement that turned up one corner of his lips. These idiots somehow managed to look angry, fearful, and confused at the same time, and the sight was not one Gabriel would soon forget as he stole the life from their lungs, twisting the expressions into ones of terror.

Gabriel made himself visible once he stood behind the guard who was watching for him with baited breath, gun extended in trembling hands. It was a delightful game of cat and mouse and, despite the close quarters, Gabriel found he was quite content to play the hunter. He swiftly kicked out, knocking the other man to his knees and sending the gun flying from his hands and skidding across the tiled floor. He brought a booted foot down on the man's grasping hand, able to hear each individual bone break as he twisted his heel into his palm.

His mind was working quickly, calculating each individual facet of his actions as he stepped back from the man, allowing him a centimeter to move before sending him against the wall with a flick of his wrist, pain twisting his features. The small voice in the back of his head had become conspicuously silent, though Gabriel couldn't find it in himself to examine why as he lifted the other man off his feet, strangling him from several feet away.

The hallway had become nearly deserted; almost every guard was outside, as was their assumption. The less that remained inside, the easier it would be to free the other prisoners. The large majority of people still in the hospital's walls were researchers or nurses, holed up and trembling in their rooms like trapped rats, no doubt feeling the fear that they'd instilled in their subjects for years. The thought made Gabriel grasp the man tighter around the throat, watching as the blood vessels in his face began to rupture, turning him an ugly red as the breath left his lungs. His eyes distantly followed the slow movement of the other man's hand, grasping desperately for something that wasn't there, amusement turning his features into a cruel smirk as he squeezed tighter. It wasn't until the gun that lay several feet away was suddenly in the man's hand that Gabriel realized he had severely miscalculated.

It didn't take but a moment for the other man to fire the gun. He wasn't completely accurate; instead of tearing into Gabriel's heart, the bullet lodged into his shoulder. The pain was sudden and intense, and it caused Gabriel to lose his focus; it was only for a moment, though it was long enough to allow the other man to slide to the floor and gasp air back into his lungs.

The lights above his head had begun to flicker again as he grasped his shoulder with one hand, waiting for the bullet to slide out as the flesh began to heal. It took him a moment to realize once more that he no longer held Claire's ability, gritting his teeth together tightly as the pain flared out from the wound.

Gabriel turned his eyes down to the man who was still on the floor, his gun grasped loosely in his fingertips, and felt a fury stronger than his pain. This man was a special like him, like everyone who was trapped here, and yet he used his abilities to keep them caged like animals. He glared down at the man, snapping the gun back from him with a simple flick of his wrist, feeling the metal cool and reassuring in his own hand. He didn't hesitate before putting a bullet between his eyes, sliding the gun into his pocket and turning away just as the lights flickered and disappeared.

Any relief he may have felt was overshadowed by anger and annoyance as he turned to the stairs, taking them two at a time with his long stride until he reached the second floor. He could hear cries of surprise as the locks on every door slid open, the generator that had been keeping them running suddenly dead. He couldn't help but find some amusement in the way the lab technicians and nurses scattered, suddenly fearful of their charges. The hallway was nearly pitch black; it was only the blinking red lights of the emergency alarm that lit Gabriel's way as he went from door to door, unlocking the handcuffs tying each special to their beds and giving them careful instructions on where to go next. They were to help as many others as they could as they made their way to the back entrance, but not put themselves at risk. It wasn't exactly a foolproof plan, but it was all they had.

Gabriel paused at the entrance to a room near the end of the hall, his eyes falling on the red-headed nurse sticking needles into the arm of her seemingly unconscious charge, strapped to a metal bed. Gabriel didn't hesitate before sending the woman flying into the wall, barely reacting to the sickening 'thud' her head made as it came into contact with the wall. She slid to the floor, a dazed look on her face as he stepped closer to the figure on the bed.

A small girl stared back at him, fear evident in her wide eyes. Gabriel slid the locks out of place, keeping the redheaded nurse in his line of vision as he did so. Once the girl was freed she scrambled quickly from the bed, landing hard on the cold tiled floor beneath their feet. She stared up at Gabriel with a mixture of fear and curiosity, a combination that made him feel immensely uncomfortable under her gaze.

"Come on," He said when she neglected to move, glancing back and forth between the nurse on the ground and the stranger in front of her. "We need to hurry," He added, raising his voice to be heard above the alarms that continued to blare above their heads, the blinking red lights causing every movement to appear jumpy and disconnected.

He pushed back a stab of annoyance when the small girl ducked past him, scrambling into the hallway and nearly running into another patient he'd released only moments before.

"Make sure she goes with the rest of you," Gabriel ordered, watching as the man nodded, wrapping an arm around the young girl and leading her down the hallway. He bit back a curse as he realized that he still had several doors to go, along with the floor above him. He didn't know how much longer they had.

He worked quickly, turning out several prisoners in the span of a few minutes. His only instructions were to go and follow the larger crowd, barely a glance spared in their direction before he turned to the next room. By the time he made it to the third floor the alarm had silenced, leaving his ears ringing in the sudden silence. The lights continued to flash above his head, every blink of red light bringing a new sense of discomfort. Something wasn't right. Claire was supposed to meet him on the third floor and help him with the prisoners before they made their way to the fourth and final floor, and yet she was nowhere to be seen. He felt his stomach clench slightly, and though he knew logically that she may have simply been held up, something else was unsettling him. He knew very well that there was at least one person in this facility that she would have loved to see dead, and many more who she blamed, logically or not, for her father's death.

Gabriel bit back a curse as he ducked into room after room, only occasionally running across another nurse or orderly. None of them gave him any grief, instead cowering in the corner as he released their charges and left, slamming the doors closed behind him. He worked quickly, the knot in his stomach tightening with every moment when Claire didn't appear at the end of the hallway. She was going to put them all in danger; the anxiety was slowly simmering, turning to anger that was as familiar as the back of his hand. He'd warned her of this; he'd done all he could to make her understand that she couldn't let her ideals of revenge come before their mission, and yet she'd ignored him and gone off on her own. He felt his hands clench into fists at his sides as he made his way to the stairs, leaving the now abandoned hallway behind him. Her selfishness was going to cost them all their lives.

There weren't many rooms on the fourth floor. Only one hallway consisted of rooms for patients; the rest of the floor stretched out, leading to the medical and research facilities that were used on a daily basis. Gabriel knew this floor the best; it was where he'd been taken to have his powers ripped out, one by one.

Only a few of the rooms were occupied; he sent them downstairs, giving detailed directions to the back entrance, telling them once more to follow the crowd. He knew he was speaking too loudly, but his ears were still ringing with the remnants of the alarm. He could catch small snippets of thought as they rushed off, ranging from recognition to fear to gratitude. He closed his eyes as they disappeared down the stairs, reaching for anything familiar. They were running behind; he knew that Peter would leave before risking the lives of those they'd rescued, but part of him doubted he'd do it right away. He needed to find Claire and get back outside.

He stepped carefully over the debris of wrecked medical carts and fallen files, the only sound in his ears that of his own breathing, steady and slow. He could see the layout of the floor in his mind, knew that as soon as he turned the corner he would find the laboratory, the counters cluttered with microscopes and other equipment. The pain in his shoulder suddenly flared up, and he bit back a groan as he opened his eyes, turning right and staring at the stark white hallway that had been his prison for years.

He walked slowly, struggling to listen with both his ears and his mind, though not even a snippet of thought reached his mind. He trailed one hand along the wall, leaving a bloody streak behind as his fingertips brushed the white paint. It wasn't until he reached the end of the hallway that he heard them, loud enough to break through the ringing in his ears.

"Come, Miss Bennet," a voice said, soothing and condescending, seemingly sure, though Gabriel could catch the undertone of fear that laced his words. "You've already won, have you not? You should go meet up with your friends while you can. I'm sure they won't wait forever."

Gabriel stepped into the doorway of the operating room, his eyes moving slowly from the nameless Doctor, who stood with his back pressed against the wall, to Claire, who had a gun trained steadily on his forehead. Something about the way she looked at the man, her eyes dark with hatred and teeth clenched in anger, reminded him of someone. It wasn't until her eyes moved briefly to meet his own, narrowed and angry, that he realized he was looking at himself.

It was this recognition that caused him to unclench his own fists, meeting her gaze steadily until she turned back to the doctor, who continued to cower against the wall.

"Claire," Gabriel said simply, watching as her shoulders stiffened slightly at the sound of his voice. "We need to leave. Now."

"I'm not going anywhere," She snapped, her words laced with bitterness and venom. "Not until this bastard is dead."

"Claire," He began again, but she cut him off before he could finish.

"He killed my father!" She shouted, her voice cracking slightly on the last word. Gabriel glanced at the doctor, who simply shook his head, as though he'd already explained himself many times.

"We don't know what happened to your father, Claire," Gabriel said slowly. "And we don't have time for revenge. Peter is going to take everyone back. He may be able to manage without me, but he isn't coming back. I made that very clear."

"Then go," She snapped, not once taking her eyes off of the face of the man who Gabriel knew had taken his place as the boogeyman in her nightmares. "I'm not stopping you."

And though he knew her words were true, he didn't move. Peter wouldn't forgive him if he simply left Claire behind, and Gabriel knew that he wouldn't forgive himself, either. The anger he'd felt boiling inside of him as he thought of how reckless and selfish she was being had sputtered and died, leaving in its place a simple desire to see her safe on the other side of this mess. He'd put her through hell, and this place had taken her back. Whether it was due to his own guilt or not didn't matter; in that moment he decided that he wouldn't leave without her, even if he had to drag her out kicking and screaming. He wouldn't let her kill this man. He wouldn't let her turn into him.

_'Claire,'_ he tried again, knowing that this way she would be unable to interrupt him. _'He isn't worth it. Leave him. You're not a killer. You may have done it before, but it was for self-preservation, for good reasons. Even with Brody. And you didn't kill him. This is revenge, and it will change you. You don't understand that now, but it will. You need to leave him. We need to go.'_

Her shoulders had stiffened even further, and he saw the slight shake of her head, watched as her finger cocked the gun as though she'd done it a million times before. Her eyes had turned to his, and something in his own face must have unsettled her. He felt a frown tug on his lips as she tilted her head slightly, a cold determination quickly settling over whatever he may have seen there.

"I'm sorry," She said flatly, and fired the gun.

Gabriel lifted a hand, ignoring the way his shoulder screamed in protest as he did so. The bullet stopped a mere inch from the doctor's head, floating for a moment before falling to the ground with a small 'ping'.

For a moment it was silent. The doctor's chest was heaving, his eyes wide as he realized he'd only thinly escaped his own death. Claire had lowered the gun slightly, her breath shallow as she turned towards Gabriel.

"What the hell is the matter with you?!" She screamed. "You have no right! After all the things you've done, you have no right to tell me that I'm wrong!"

He took her words in stride, flinching only when he lowered his hand, the muscles in his shoulder screaming in pain where they'd been torn by the bullet. It only took her a moment to turn the gun back to the doctor, who had begun to move towards the door.

"I want you to tell me the truth," She hissed, cocking the gun once more. "You knew my father was onto you, didn't you. You knew, and you killed him."

The man turned his eyes slowly towards Gabriel, pausing for a moment before looking back at Claire.

"I couldn't let him get any closer," He said simply, and Gabriel bit back a curse as the words settled in the air. Claire had merely been guessing before; now she would never leave this man alive, and part of him didn't want to let her.

"You bastard," She whispered, training the gun on the center of his forehead once more. The man glanced at Gabriel, as though he expected him to do something about it. "You _bastard_!"

Gabriel didn't move fast enough to stop the bullet. He watched as it tore through the man's leg, sending him toppling to the ground, and knew that Claire had missed anywhere lethal on purpose. She wanted him to suffer, a notion he understood too well. He too would have loved to see the cause of so much of his own pain crawl like the worm he was; he could already feel the stirrings of a different kind of hunger, the lust for blood that always accompanied that for power.

It was the images he caught coming from Claire's mind that stopped him. Her standing over the doctor's prone body, slicing his skin the way he had hers, making him beg for mercy and then failing to give it. Gabriel shook his head slowly, watching as her shaking hands turned the gun back on the man on the floor, pale and sweating.

"Claire, stop," He said, and when she didn't respond he took a step closer, narrowing his eyes slightly. "_Stop._"

She only turned her eyes to his when he touched her shoulder, making her jump and lose focus. The hatred was obvious in the way she stood, the way she clutched the gun as though it were her only lifeline.

"He deserves to die," She whispered, and Gabriel nodded.

"But not by your hand," He said quietly, though she flinched away when he reached for the gun, taking a step back.

"That's not your decision," She said simply, and Gabriel knew he'd lost her.

He slid the gun from her grasp before she could fire again, knowing as he did so that he'd made himself the enemy in her eyes once more, if he'd ever vacated the position in the first place. He sent it across the room, skittering across the tiled floor until it landed in the corner, far from her or the doctor's reach.

"Damn you, Sylar!" She shouted suddenly, the words somehow feeling like a slap in the face, albeit a deserved one. She shoved him back, her hand sending pain flaring up and down his arm from the wound in his shoulder. She barely glanced at the blood on her hand nor that pooling on the ground beneath his feet, instead taking the opportunity to knock him back once more, though she barley managed to move him.

"This wasn't your fight!" She screamed, her fists hitting him hard enough to leave bruises that wouldn't heal as quickly as her own. Gabriel simply stood there, allowing her to dispel her anger onto his person, barely flinching every time she hit his wound. Were it not for his hearing, still partially enhanced by Ando's power, he might not have heard the sound of metal sliding from a holster as the doctor took a gun from a holster that was strapped to his ankle, hidden beneath his pants leg

Claire continued her ministrations, pausing only to turn back to the gun that lay in the far corner. She'd barley taken a step towards it when Gabriel heard the gun cock. And though he knew that Claire couldn't be hurt, not permanently, he still found himself throwing her from the line of fire with a simple flick of his finger, the bullet tearing a path through the wall instead of through her flesh.

She hit the wall hard, and he frowned slightly as she forced herself to her knees, her hands reaching for the gun that was now within her reach. Gabriel turned his eyes back to the doctor who, cursing, now had his weapon pointed at him.

He lifted a hand to send it away, but once again, he was too slow. He felt the bullets rip into his chest, tearing through muscle and tissue before emptying out the other side. Blood quickly filled his mouth as he struggled for breath, the ground rising to meet him as the doctor fired another shot, another. It took a moment for Gabriel to realize that he wasn't healing, and another to realize that he never would.

The ground was cool against his torn flesh, a slight relief in a sea of pain. His vision began to swim with black dots as he watched Claire push herself to her feet, pointing her gun at the man who had just effectively ended his life.

He heard the sound of gunshots, and then all was silent.

_**To be continued…**_

**Note:** Sorry again for the long wait! I just started college in a different state, so it's been kind of hectic lately. I'll try to update when I can, and I'll do my best to make sure it's not such a long wait again!


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